


Tug of War

by herbeautifullie



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Character Death, Happy Ending, Kid Fic, Kink Meme, M/M, Surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbeautifullie/pseuds/herbeautifullie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur really should have listened when Morgana told him that having a child at someone else's demand was a bad idea because, though he'll never say as much aloud, she was correct. It started off with Merlin spilling coffee (which was far too common, really); there was a bit of paint and a baby in the middle and then, in the end, there was a break-up...</p><p>Except, that wasn't the end at all. Arthur wouldn't let it be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tug of War

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [ this ](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/30557.html?thread=29457501#t29457501)[kinkme_merlin](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/) prompt over on LJ. So much love and thanks to everyone who followed/read it over there and supported me through the posting. You all are the best!
> 
> Character Death in the warning _does not_ mean Arthur or Merlin but they will miss the character who dies so expect a bit of sad. :( Also, please forgive me for making this story 10x longer (and more angst-y!) than it needed to be. My brain provided so much (so much!) back story...
> 
> Thank you to [Summer](http://singlemomsummer.livejournal.com/) for beta reading, [Ing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ingberry) for approving with gratuitous key smashing and the summary help (ily!) and _you_ , of course, for giving it a chance. ♥

**[PART I]**

_-m._

It’s the stupid song on the radio’s fault. Between the teen in the speakers singing about giving some bloke she’s never met before her number ridiculously hoping that he'll ring her (maybe) and the high of just breaking up with Gwaine (because Merlin is a realist and people like him with over-large ears and untameable hair _don’t_ break up with _Gwaine, Gwaine_ breaks up with _them_ ), Merlin feels more than a little invincible when he doesn’t stumble over the mat just inside the café or spill coffee down his front as he retrieves his cup from the smitten bloke behind the bar who winks and makes sure to let their fingers brush. His seat doesn’t mysteriously jump away from him and he even manages to make it through six pages of his book – a record! – before he remembers that he left his mobile on the table beside the door, his keys are likely still in the bowl beside it and he'll probably be locked out tonight when he gets off work. He'll spend a solid hour and a half waiting for Gwen to bring his spare key. By then it'll be past dinner, he'll be practically starving and his stomach will be growling sonnets about pot noodles before bed.

Merlin jumps, surprised, when his mobile buzzes in his pocket a moment later. In an attempt to retrieve it his fingers brush against his keys and everything is sure to be uphill from there.

It’s with that damn song on his mind, a cup of un-spilled coffee, his keys and mobile in his pocket and a shit-eating grin he couldn’t force off of his face if he tried that he runs into the most gorgeous prat he's ever had the (dis)honour of meeting.

Or, rather, said prat's chair.

Even still, Merlin doesn’t think it’s an awful turn of events. The coffee spills over the other's trousers and the lower-half of his pressed white shirt; soaks them both to his skin and his perfect chiselled face flashes with shock before it turns to fury. But _Merlin_ is still dry and floating on cloud nine so, no, it’s not _too_ terrible. He tries to quell his smile, aware that he must look like a nutter when he reaches across the bloke’s table, knocking a glass to the floor. When he reaches to catch it, his arm pushes another glass aside. He's forced to watch it splash against a third man at the table before it lands roughly in his lap (Merlin winces for that one because, really, that couldn’t have felt good). 

It all happened in an effort to grab a napkin to clean up his original mess. He thinks that his lucky streak couldn't really be that shorted-lived; there has to be _more_. 

“So sorry,” Merlin starts, shaking his head but smiling all the same. “It’s been a perfectly good day until... Well, right about a moment ago.”

“ _Yes_ ,” replies the original spillee slowly, bitingly. "My day was flowingly seamlessly before you showed up. Do you pay _any_ attention at all to where you’re _walking_?”

Merlin presses the napkin in his hand against the bloke's dark trousers, hoping to soak up a bit of the spill and maybe salvage the moment his eyes catch the way the sunlight from overhead gleams over the stranger's golden hair, strong shoulders flexing under the starched white shirt he's wearing as he moves to push Merlin away. His Adam’s apple bobs over the knot of his blood red tie, blue eyes daring Merlin to respond as he presses his lips together in annoyance (Merlin recognises that look well enough, after all).

How well will his luck will hold up if he says, ‘ _Usually I do but I was too busy staring at you to watch my own feet'_?

Long fingers rip the napkin free from Merlin’s hand. The stranger throws it down onto the table as he nods toward the door. “Go – _away_.”

One of the men beside him, the one Merlin’s series of spills missed, is a dark-haired man with soft, friendly eyes who mumbles, “Arthur, it was an accident.” He nods to Merlin, gives him an encouraging smile. “We’ll stop by the hotel before we go on and let you change. No harm done.”

The blond man on Arthur’s other side retrieves the napkin Arthur stole from Merlin's fingers and dabs it against his own wet front, plucking the dripping shirt away from his chest with a wet squelch that makes them all grimace. “A _mess_ is what this is.”

But it’s Merlin’s first lucky day in... forever. Best not to waste it.

He knows that, in most situations, he’d sidle away right about now and save himself the embarrassment of offering some kind of retribution he can’t afford like dry cleaning or a new shirt (the ones they’re wearing look like the expensive brands he fingers in the shop but never dares to look at the price tag of). Today, though, he shifts from one foot to the other, tugs self-consciously at the bottom of his scrub shirt and blurts, “I know we got off to a bloody awful start but maybe I could leave you with my number and we could try again another time. Maybe?” because – what the hell? and everything else that could go right today has, so why not push his luck just one step more (or maybe two, because he still has to make the walk to work without being hit by a bus)?

“No.”

Merlin nods and backs away, stumbling over his feet before he rights himself and thinks, ‘Well, it was nice while it lasted.’ He's just thankful the bus driver hit the brakes when he did. Luck must have held out a little bit... 

: : :

Gwen tells him she got a strange ring; that a man named Arthur says he has his mobile and, when she speaks, she pauses occasionally as though she's unsure of how to relay the message. "He said he'd like to return it to the idiot who left it at his table," she tells Merlin, looking confused, "and because he called from your mobile, I thought that might be you. When I asked, he laughed at your name – said it was a bloody awful thing to be called and wondered how he missed it when you propositioned him."

"Propositioned? He makes it sound like I'm a..." His lips move, speaking though no words come out. He probably looks like a fish which, if anything, makes him even angrier.

"Prostitute?" Gwen tries. The word sounds strange in her voice, twice as dirty as it usually does.

Merlin winces, and exclaims "Yes! That fucking wanker!" as he tears Gwen's mobile from her shocked fingers. The most recent text, dated yesterday, from his mobile reads: _Inform the idiot I will have it tomorrow. 11 at Caffe Nero. Thank you. -Arthur_

He seethes while he pulls a jumper over his head, runs his fingers through his hair and forgets his keys on the way out, not even apologising for slamming the door in Gwen's face when he leaves.

: : :

All in all, it works out in Merlin’s favour. He meets Arthur at the café, purposely spills a fresh cup of piping hot coffee over Arthur’s newest shirt and the cost of the macchiato is so worth the open-mouthed stare (and the quick peek at perfect stomach muscles under a freshly laundered wet button-up) he receives in response. Snagging his mobile off the table, Merlin is gone before Arthur has a chance to try and take it back or say more than a stuttered, “What the _fuck_?”

Arthur tells Merlin months later when they’re wrapped in Merlin’s faded blue sheets that he would have said more, would have snatched Merlin’s bony little wrist and not let him get away if he hadn’t been so focused on how amazing Merlin’s arse looked in his tattered, indigo-washed jeans and the fitted navy jumper that hadn’t come down low enough to cover the dip at Merlin’s lower back when he'd turned away and stalked out of the door, head shaking and muttering still slightly audible when he'd said, "What an absolute prat!"

Arthur had never been so mesmerized, left so speechless and – 

Here, Merlin kisses him and says, “Less about me. More about _you_.” 

_-a._

It’s the fire in Merlin’s eyes, the eagerness in the air around him that attracts Arthur’s attention. Hot coffee over his lap once was enough, even if it was an accident. The second time, when Merlin had taken the time to tear off the lid and skipped adding milk and sugar before he’d unceremoniously tossed it over Arthur’s chest, was on purpose and _unforgivable_. 

He’s not sure what kind of fool Merlin takes him for. He’d snatched the number from his mobile before he’d headed to the café and programmed it into his own mobile under the name ‘World’s Biggest Idiot’ because he didn't think there was a person in the world (save Merlin's mum, probably) who didn't think he was an idiot, but he was fit enough and there was some part of Arthur that refused to forget him – to let him get away.

When he gathers his bearings, presses as much coffee out of his shirt and trousers as he can manage and fishes his mobile out of his pocket, he scrolls quickly through his contacts with one eye trained on the glaring screen and the other trained on moving quickly between the few people milling over the pavement. There is no sign of the navy blue jumper Merlin was wearing, no messy head of dark hair or even any ridiculously large ears so he keeps his own ( _normal_ -sized, thank you very much) ears keen for the sound of a ringing mobile when he presses the ‘dial’ button next to Merlin’s (aptly assigned) title. 

_Hey, I heard you were a wild one. Oooooh._

Arthur looks up, speaker against his ear ringing familiarly as the music grows louder, closer when he follows the noise. It's too perfectly timed to be coincidence. The door to the nearby shop is propped open, an ‘open’ sign hanging crooked off a battered nail over the entryway. The girl behind the register, young and spotted, bats her lashes and Arthur nods stiffly, entirely too aware of the way her eyes follow him as he focuses on the music, tracks it past the first three shelves. 

_If I took you home, it’d be a home run._

“ _Shit._ I just got this damn thing back and I’ve already lost it – _again_.”

The toe of Arthur’s shoe smacks something, sends it skidding across the floor. When he looks down, he finds Merlin bent over with his fingers outstretched for his crooning mobile. 

_Hey, I heard you like the wild ones, wild ones, wild ones. Oooh._

“Hello?” Merlin’s lips part, release the word and a moment later Arthur's mobile repeats it, grainy through the speaker and not nearly as breathtaking as it had been the first time. “ _Hello?_ ”

“These shirts are _expensive_.”

Eyes wide, infinitely blue and not the least bit fearful, Merlin says, “Maybe if you stopped being such a... _clotpole_ , I wouldn't feel the need to douse coffee on you all the time.”

It’s an odd (their friends call it humorous but there was nothing funny about the moment Arthur shoved Merlin back against the bookshelf, more aware of the fullness of Merlin’s lips and less aware of his own voice as it demanded Merlin stop making up stupid words and realise that he couldn’t _talk_ to him that way) start to a relationship but later, they’ll pride themselves on being unique. 

Their life together starts in a café on a Monday, with Merlin in faded orange scrubs and Arthur in freshly pressed Versace.

Strangely enough, years later it will end very similarly. 

: : :

Arthur remembers weekend trips from London to Devon, surprising Merlin in A&E at Torbay with coffee (that Arthur manages to keep in the cup) and the silent, needy press of Merlin’s lips against his after a long week away. He remembers Merlin’s body bowed, hips raised and fingers wrapped tight around Arthur's hair. The way his lungs faltered when he looked down at Merlin’s face and couldn’t pull himself away from the depth of adoration in Merlin’s eyes. More clearly than that, he remembers Merlin’s head pillowed against his shoulder, dark hair stark over his skin and thin lids fluttering as Arthur’s hand traced the knobs in Merlin’s spine from top to bottom, fingers dipping slowly over and under. He’d hoped to stop right there, still himself and succumb to sleep before he said something silly like – “Come back to London with me.”

Right. Yes. Something silly _just_ like that.

Even worse, Arthur doesn’t stop there. He rings Morgana a week later from Merlin’s flat as he stacks Merlin’s medical texts neatly in one box and tosses his thin, worn shirts messily in another. He speaks hopelessly on and on about Merlin until she says, “Uther will be furious, Arthur. This isn’t a... You’re _serious_ , you understand? _Serious_.” When he tries to take it all back, explain that it’s not as serious as she suggests, he fumbles over his words and ends up telling her about Merlin’s cheekbones and the strangely endearing way he can’t seem to keep _anything_ (coffee, most especially) in his hands when he walks. He’s expected to speak reverently about like the feel of Merlin’s tongue pressing deliciously to the head of his cock, something related to sex rather than feelings because he's a man and men aren't driven mad enough to invite their (male) lovers four hours from home, to London and all it includes, for _love_.

Merlin in _London_ – in London with _him_. 

“ _Furious_ ,” Morgana repeats before she hangs up. “Make sure that this is what you want, Arthur. Make sure it’s enough to hold your ground.”

Uther seems unsurprised. He hardly glances away from the paperwork scattered across his desk when Arthur delivers the news. The repeat visits to Devon over the long weekends and the bit of extra work he’s been leaving behind when he heads home must have provided his father with all the hints he needed. Perhaps the gender of his partner wasn’t expected, but Uther isn’t a fool and he supposes the lack of birds Arthur has brought round for tea may have been some sort of sign...

His father is quiet, controlled, when he looks away from his documents saying, “The people love a family man, Arthur. A spouse in the medical field will mean something, maybe just enough to make them overlook the fact that he's a man, but children is what they'll want to see – a family. I refuse to allow the Pendragon name die with you, Arthur. See that there is an heir, a strong one, and your future still be secure despite your... _odd_ partnership."

Arthur wonders if that’s Uther’s way of offering his blessing. He doesn’t dare ask the question aloud though because, to be fair, he doesn’t think an heir is too much to ask for if he gets to keep Merlin. 

: : :

Merlin is good at what he does – a people pleaser, easily fallen in love with (Arthur would know) – and has every doctor at St Thomas’ wrapped around his finger within a week of his arrival despite having tripped over a dozen electrical cords and nearly dousing the hospital director in coffee. Arthur treats Merlin to Roux for dinner that evening, hoping to quell his worry. Merlin fidgets the entire time, yanks at his tie obsessively and it takes all of Arthur’s patience to not straddle him in the middle of the restaurant.

He's also unsophisticated in a way that Arthur loves and hates but doesn't quite understand. After all, the concept of multiple forks shouldn't be a foreign one to any member of society. 

Despite the mishaps, Merlin moves in legitimately a week later. No more single boxes at a time or a bag packed for one night at a time slung over his shoulder when he knocks.

It's a rainy Monday and Arthur, sopping wet and freezing from the cold, has never felt as complete as he does when he pushes open the door, drops his keys on the nearby table and finds Merlin waiting with a towel and a shy grin.

“Welcome home.” 

_-m._

It’s not easy to fall into the pattern of Arthur’s life. He is busy learning the ins and outs of politics on the front lines. His father insists he be around often to make sure the older, more mature members of Parliament see his face and understand his devotion to the career. One day he will be like them, a name to be recognised and respected just like his father (and his father before him, etc). Merlin works eight hour shifts at the hospital; Arthur is gone before he wakes and is home long after dinner is served. Every flat surface in the flat becomes the home of piles upon piles of paperwork and legislature that Merlin only understands half of (and that's giving him credit he's not sure he deserves). When he finally breaks down during one of Arthur's tirades about bigoted conservative ideals making marriage an impossibility without travel and says, “If you’re not Conservative, why do you try to act like you are? There’s nothing wrong with being Lib-Dem, but there’s a lot wrong with pretending to be something you aren’t,” over dinner one night, Arthur nearly packs Merlin’s boxes _for_ him.

Arthur tells Merlin he has no idea what he’s talking about, assumes aloud that it's another one of Merlin’s hateful attacks on the political system and it isn’t until hours later when he’s sound asleep and Merlin is still awake, staring up at the ceiling and missing the old water stained walls of his flat in Devon, that he realises that he and Arthur have just had their first fight. 

Merlin also hates how easily – and rather recklessly – Arthur flaunts his wealth. There are sheets made with a million threads of the softest, brightest red known to mankind on their bed. Their flat takes modern to an entirely new level; Merlin sometimes wakes up and wonders what year it is, if he's been reincarnated into the future. With a small block of concrete they get to call their own over the Thames, their view priceless and practically reeks of opulence. 

It’s a lot to become accustomed to for someone like Merlin. Growing up in a small way, living from one day to the next and eating pot noodles for more than one meal a month out of necessity rather than desire, he doesn’t quite know how to behave in the posh restaurants Arthur frequents with his mates from Uni or how anyone can fathom spending two-hundred pounds on polos they’ll only wear once for a round of golf. They’ll spend more time _talking_ then actually _playing_ , anyway.

Sometimes there are minuscule debates where they sigh and give each other dirty looks for twenty minutes before Merlin gives in and let’s Arthur pay for lunch, dinner or whatever over-priced gift he wants to buy Merlin. Other days there are long, drawn out screaming matches that send them both to bed with dry, aching throats and tired eyes that say ‘I’m sorry’ though their lips refuse to offer the same apology. 

They last, though. The first two years are quick-passing and unforgettable; marked by breathless kisses after Arthur’s trips out of town and loud, gasping nights in luxurious hotels when they sneak away for a weekend or two of their own. The good things make Merlin forget about their mid-week arguments and the cold meals he wraps and puts in the refrigerator for Arthur to eat when he comes home – sometimes minutes later, other times hours. They share pints at the pub with Arthur’s work mates, Leon and Lancelot (who, Merlin learns, have rather unkind stories to relay about the number of things Arthur called Merlin after their initial meeting in Devon). Morgana dotes on him, announces at their first meeting that he is everything Arthur said he was and so much more. She promptly adopts him as something of her own, shows him around the city, whispers warnings about Uther Pendragon’s hold on Arthur’s life and tells Merlin he should be sure to remind Arthur where he belongs – where he wants to be, rather than where Uther thinks he should be.

But, for all of Morgana’s whispered warnings, the swift clutches to Merlin’s wrist to assure she has his attention when she reminds him about keeping Arthur focused (“What _he_ wants, Merlin. Make Arthur think of _Arthur_.”), Uther is always distantly pleasant when he and Merlin happen to meet each other. It’s never on purpose but Merlin supposes bringing Arthur lunch once a week in Parliament where he and Uther work in offices next to each other makes their meetings not quite unexpected.  
Openly, he doesn’t speak a word against Merlin and when he mentions it – Uther’s passiveness, his ease of conversation – to Morgana one afternoon, she passes him a glare that could freeze the Thames in July. “Have you not been listening, Merlin? Uther is in _politics_ ; polite conversation is his _profession_. You know first-hand what an arse Arthur is but very few others are very knowledgeable about that, yes? They’re both closed books and reading their pages is difficult – Uther, especially. Don’t assume that he’s on your side, Merlin. Never let your guard down; his attacks are often indirect but powerful nonetheless.” 

Arthur bites into his pasta, chewing slowly as he listens to Merlin repeat the entire conversation. When he’s done meal and story both finished, Arthur says, “My father hasn’t said anything at all in regards to this relationship. Despite Morgana’s declarations, if he was unhappy, he would have _directly_ and _purposely_ let us both know he was displeased with the status quo. He works in politics; his speciality is making things go his way.”

“I thought working in politics means you’re meant to make things go the way _the people_ want, not yourself.”

“Mind your mouth, Merlin,” Arthur warns. Merlin knows he’s toeing the line and doesn’t respond. Arthur thinks male nurses are silly and Merlin thinks politics are all a grand scheme to swindle money out of people (not that he complains when he sips coffee on the patio and watches the sun rise slowly over the Thames, all paid for by centuries of well-invested, politically-earned funds) but their guests all think they’re well-educated and perfectly matched when they stare at bookshelf upon bookshelf of Merlin’s medical texts (and how were they to know the tomes there were actually tiny in comparison to what doctors studied?) alongside Arthur’s books on political theory, law and guides to surviving Oxford (Arthur claims they’re rubbish; he tells anyone who will listen than all you need is long, sleepless nights and more pints than you can count on the weekends). “Tell Morgana to mind her own business and then follow the same advice. You sound like an idiot when you talk about things you don’t understand.”

Merlin glares at Arthur’s back, silently hoping it burns a hole in his posh collared white shirt. When he doesn’t see the smoke, a flash of flame ignited, he changes his tactic and wonders which tie he wants to strangle Arthur in his sleep with. Red, blue, green? Something with or without stripes? 

Sod it all, his bare hands will do the job just as well.

Morgana texts him that night while he’s stretched across the sofa, the Thames dark in the window beside him but greater London still alight with life long after the sun has faded in the distance and blackness has filled the once bright space. 

_It’s starting, Merlin. Stop it. Stop it soon._

: : :

Freya is small with pale skin and dark features that don’t quite match the softness of her look; round in the face and thin everywhere else. Arthur leans over, presses his lips close to Merlin’s ear and says, “She’s my exact opposite, this will never work."

Merlin is defiant, pushing Arthur away as he stands with his hand out and a smile on his lips. He introduces himself, nods to Arthur and calls him some made-up, embarrassing name in a slightly endearing way that makes Freya smile.  
Arthur showers Freya with the big, epic questions that don’t really matter in the end like her family lineage and where she hails from (“Christ, Arthur, just ask where she grew up. We don’t all ‘hail’’ from somewhere, yeah?”) in a tone that is neither kind nor inquisitive, sounding more like an attack than an interview. The stress, Uther’s constant reminders that he expects his heir soon (“I’m not getting younger, Arthur, and neither are you.”) are clearly weighing on him and their prospects, despite the very generous sum of money they’ve offered, have been _acceptable_ at best. None have given Arthur answers he approves of and most haven't even bothered to answer Merlin's questions. For the most part, they've done little more then stare at Arthur's toned arms, styled hair and chiselled face before shooting Merlin questioning glances that say, 'how did you get so lucky?'

He almost wants to say, "I'm not sure, really."

Under Arthur’s gaze, Freya stutters and looks away. Her brows draw together, colour-streaked fingers grip nervously at the fraying hem of her dress – a garment that has clearly seen better days.

When Merlin cuts in, sensing her distress and knowing full-well what it feels like to be on the other side of Arthur’s gaze – blue and clear, determined and unapologetic in their demand for understanding – he asks her easier things. The things that _matter_. He learns, quickly and with ease that she doesn’t play sports but enjoys running in the spring. “More to be outside and in nature than for the actual running,” she explains. Merlin tells her he understands completely, that he can’t put one foot in front of the other most days but he likes getting out and trying when the weather isn’t gloomy. Back and forth, they talk about music and books they enjoy, occasionally including Arthur in the conversation but mostly leaving him to listen which – Merlin thinks – helps Freya ease out of her shell. The conversation turns to school and she admits that she is without her parents, living desperately on her own. As she tugs again at the edge of her dress (Merlin’s hands itch to reach out and hold hers, calm her and tell her she’s not alone) she admits that she heard about the surrogacy from a girl they’d interviewed earlier and thought that maybe, if she came, she might impress them just a little. “I need money for University,” Freya starts slowly, looking down at her feet as they tap nervously against the marble flooring, “and I realise I’m not exactly what you’re looking for but I’m... yeah.”

Merlin loves her. Behind Arthur’s back, he schedules to meet her at The Ship Tavern where things are tight and cosy, not posh enough to make her feel small in her thin second-hand shirt and torn jeans. Over separate plates of Farmer’s bake, they talk about nothing related to surrogacy and everything related to Freya and Merlin. She talks about art, her appreciation for the work of those who draw with digital tablets but how, for her, nothing compares to the way her heart races with a pencil or a piece of coloured coal in her hands, moving deftly over a piece of paper quickly, so independent that sometimes even she doesn’t know what she’s drawing. There is paint under her nails and she smiles when he mentions it, replying a moment later that she loves painting with her fingers but canvases are expensive and second-hand paints don't do much on paper. Shyly, sounding just a little embarrassed and very much like she might regret saying anything, Freya even tells Merlin about her absolute addiction to greasy burgers and chips. “I don’t have them often but when I do, I can’t stop myself once I start. I gorge; it’s terrible. And strawberries. I _love_ strawberries.” 

While admitting he has a terrible weakness for pub food, Merlin asks, “Have you ever been to The Ledbury?” It takes only a split second, a quick flash of disappointment in Freya’s eyes to remind him that, no, Freya has never been to The Ledbury because Freya, like Merlin once was, is _poor_. It’s the entire reason they’re sitting across from each other, talking about Freya’s love of art and swimming (“I’d swim in a puddle, if I fit.”) and the death of her family (all of non-medical reasons. There are no diseases she’s aware of in her family line and she asks him quietly if having a terrible go at life will be what makes the difference to Arthur ). 

“I’ve heard it’s very good.” She pushes past the awkwardness with a brave, earnest smile that says she’s not as hurt as Merlin assumes she is. “I've never been for myself though, no.”

“It’s terrible; you’re not missing anything. They make rabbit lasagne and partridge –"

“In a pear tree?”

“No, I might actually consider eating it if it was.”

It’s easy to smile with Freya. She has a lot of the young exuberance Merlin remembers having when he was nineteen and baby-faced, teetering on his own grown-up legs for the very first time and starving to make it through university without having to call his mum for money he knew she didn’t have. He feels for her, sees so much of himself in the way she nods eagerly with his stories about work and how she throws her head back and laughs loudly, without worry for where they are or what anyone might think, when he tells her about meeting Arthur for the first time. Lowly, so no one around can hear, they stupidly sing the song that had inspired it all and when they part an hour later with full bellies and matching grins, Merlin is convinced she’s _the one_ – that, as far as he’s concerned, Freya is the only real option. 

: : :

“Absolutely not, Merlin.”

“ _Why_?”

Arthur, legs stretched out under the thick white bedding, file folders stacked high on his lap and teeth subconsciously biting at his lower lip, glances up from his paperwork with a look that says, ‘ _Clearly, you’re more of an idiot than I originally thought._ ' 

“Honestly,” Merlin huffs, “ _What_ is the issue with Freya? She’s got a lot more personality than you; there’s hope that this baby may even _smile_ once in a while if we choose her. None of the other birds said more than thirty words.” Shrugging out of his shirt, he watches Arthur watch him. He’s considering following Merlin’s hands as they pull the strings of his chequered pyjama bottoms loose and ease them down his legs. Deserting them in the middle of the floor, partially inside-out, earns him a glare. 

Arthur pushes his documents away, sweeps them all together and deposits them on the table beside the bed. “ _Mer_ >lin, she has no _address_. This isn’t just having a child because we feel like it – this is my _heir_. I can’t just let any _orphan_ girl be in charge of _my family’s future._ ”

It’s the beginning of a fracture in their glass house, a crack in the easiness they’d had once – a time that feels like so long ago. The worry, the stress and the feel of needing absolute perfection because it’s what Uther requires weighs heavily on Arthur. Merlin can feel the weight on his own shoulders, making his back hunch with the force of Arthur’s insecurities and his own.

While Merlin understands – knows, _truly_ – what this child means for Arthur’s future, he can’t stand to think of it in terms of being a means to an end – an heir, born to be the perfect fit for its last name alone. They could help Freya, be the proud parents of a little artist with Arthur’s blond hair and blues eyes on Freya’s soft, round face who tries to swim in puddles and examines political propaganda with Arthur in his study. They could secure the baby and Freya (Freya, especially) a safe, happy future and provide what his father demands.

Two birds, one stone.

Merlin chooses his words carefully as he slides under the sheets. He presses the switch to turn off his bedside lamp and closes his eyes. “For worrying so much over having the perfect heir, you are blind to Freya. She's smart, dedicated and talented – a perfect combination for any future Pendragon, I think. And she offers far more than any of the women _with_ addresses did but, as you’ve reminded me before, this will be _your_ heir so don’t feel obligated to listen to anything _I_ say.”

“Merlin –”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

The crack stretches, eases further silently and Merlin swears he can hear the sound of failure whispering him goodnight.

_-a._

Freya is not ideal. She’s nothing like Arthur predicted the mother of his child would be and he’s still not sure she’ll even manage to achieve the task but, for Merlin, he has his solicitor draw up the contract. Arthur rings her early on Monday morning (speaking to two different people before the phone finally manages to make it to her hands) and asks if she’s still interested in the job. 

Two days later, he surprises Merlin with the signed contract and for a night, it feels like things are going to work out – that they’ll be normal and the cloud of confusion and distance that has somehow come between them in the last few months has drifted away.

Merlin's fingers that night are anxious, trembling as they undo the buttons of Arthur's trousers while his lips press against Arthur's collarbones. His breath is warm, quick and fleeting as he mumbles, "Christ" and "missed you" and "Arthur" over and over while Arthur's fingers ease in and out of him, stretching him after weeks of being so far apart – physically, mentally and emotionally – and he can't remember ever taking the time to stare at Merlin's face, take in the way his lashes flutter when Arthur hits the perfect spot or the arch of his neck when he throws his head back and demands more. He says, "Whatever the fuck you're willing to give me" when Arthur asks what exactly he wants more of. Ultimately, he makes Merlin beg for it, makes Merlin say, "More fingers," when he's ready for another or "please, more" when Arthur begins to feels like he might burst from the absolutely amazing view of Merlin pressing back against Arthur's fingers, practically fucking himself on them.

In reciprocation, Merlin takes his time letting his tongue trace the head of Arthur's cock when they switch positions – sweeping over the head, lapping around the edges and tonguing the slit languidly to collect the beads of pre-come gathered there. When Arthur breaks down and begs himself, Merlin smiles tauntingly from around his cock and shakes his head before taking in more, letting the head slide slowly over the roof of his mouth before it stops in his throat, pulsing while Arthur hisses "Christ." Asks, "The fuck, Merlin?"

When Arthur is buried deep in Merlin later their eyes meet between wide-eyed pleasure and close-eyed wonder, Merlin mumbles "Thank you" and knows he doesn't have to explain what he's appreciative of. Arthur doesn't reply, just bucks his hips and pushes himself further in Merlin's body, telling Merlin he's tired of waiting and ready to be ridden – tired of being teased when he pushes forward and Merlin smirks teasingly, pulling back to be just out of reach. Merlin's legs tremble just slightly when they pull him up, push him down and he squeezes around Arthur's cock the entire way through, feeling tight and complete and breathless with experiencing it all at once. He is in love with the feel of the muscles in Merlin's thighs, flexing with his every breath under his fingers, Arthur's cock throbbing deep inside of him. 

He comes wondering if maybe, just maybe, they'll have this forever. 

: : :

There are minor complications. Bumps and bruises that make Merlin panic every time he sees them and though Freya promises she’s taking care of herself and living in a safe place, Merlin eventually convinces her (and Arthur) that where she belongs most is with them. Arthur watches as quickly, easily, Merlin and Freya become a dynamic duo. 

For the first few weeks, it’s oddly cosy to come home to both of them in the kitchen or at the table, pouring over paint splotches and laughing about the horrendous names that someone was actually paid to come up with like _Festoon_ and _Hep Green_. 

They bring home a fuzzy black and white image three months later with a big white arrow that says ‘baby Pendragon’. It's pointed at a tiny light-coloured mass in the very centre and Arthur is struck by how real it is, standing in the living room and staring down at the glossy film as Merlin says, “Look, Arthur! Look!” He smiles wide, proud and so undeniably gorgeous that Arthur can’t help but smile along despite the clenching in his stomach that tells him _‘this is wrong. I'm not ready for this'_ over and over again.

The picture is joined by others on the refrigerator over the next few months until, eventually, Merlin crowds Arthur before he’s even through the door to wave another image and announce, “Look! He’s a _boy_! He’s got _bits_!” 

That night, Merlin makes lasagne (without the rabbit, he proudly proclaims) and tells Arthur how his leave of absence from the hospital works. Freya prattles on about the nursery sets she and Merlin found in a tiny antique shop in Victoria, regaling about the nautical theme they thought would be cute seeing as the baby’s room has a water-view. Arthur feels a little lost, a little lonely, when Merlin shares a smile with Freya – the quick, sweet one that was once Arthur’s alone – as they tell him about the wheel they found in a shop down the street, apparently taken from a ship of old that would look perfect just above the dark brown crib they’d chosen the day before. He begins to feel like, with every passing week, he’s losing just a little bit more of Merlin to Freya and the baby that doesn’t have a name – who hardly even exists yet but who has suddenly become the focus of Merlin’s entire world – a world that had once revolved around Arthur and nothing more.

He delves into his work, dedicates his life to a country full of people who hardly know his name while Merlin waits at home, no longer seeming to notice if Arthur is coming or going. The extra tasks he scrapes together give him an excuse not to go home to Merlin’s singing in the kitchen or Freya’s paint-stained fingers coating chicken breasts for dinner – couple-like when they belt out the same lyrics to a terrible song, practically screaming when the girl on the radio says _cheerio_.

All the work, skipped dinners, thirty-six missed calls from _Home_ (not to mention the twenty-four from _Merlin (Mobile)_ ) and twelve voicemails all saying something like, “Where have you been lately?” eventually impresses the Prime Minister himself. 

After that, Arthur hardly remembers what home even looks like. A weekend in Devon, two days in Kent and then back to London for a night in bed – a night Merlin ends up working overnight at A&E, most times – before he starts his pattern all over again. 

Their relationship, never quite untouchable but always, at the very least, comforting, has taken to falling apart. Bits and pieces, tiny scraps of what they used to be, drift away and clatter noiselessly every time he packs a bag or moves past Merlin in the hall without saying ‘goodbye’. And, the worst of it all, he knows it’s cruel – wrong, unfair – to treat him that way but... He’s not sure how else to handle his feelings, the soft, tender part of his chest that aches constantly, reminding him of what he’s losing. Merlin used to heal those spots, the tiny aches and pinpricks of regret with kisses and comforting touches that didn’t need to become sex because they, the simple press of Merlin’s lips against Arthur’s bare shoulder after a warm shower or Merlin’s thumb rubbing a slow, soothing circle over the knot of stress in Arthur’s neck, were enough. 

Now, though, he’s forgotten what any of that ever felt like and he can’t figure out how he’s meant to get it back.

: : :

Arthur’s mobile buzzes flashes and then flickers before dimming. The tiny yellow light in the corner blinks and every minute (on the dot, Arthur is watching the clock) it vibrates on the table, slides a little further from his hands. When it tips, barely holding on the hotel’s tiny round table, he retrieves it and moves to press the ‘delete’ button, go on about his day and pretend he didn’t watch the screen as Merlin’s over-wide and absolutely ridiculous smiling face filled it’s centre – that he didn’t wrangle with his fingers, instinct telling him to pick up because ‘ _Merlin, Merlin_ , Merlin!’ and ‘ _when did you get to this point? What are you scared of?_ ’ and ‘ _It’s late; he wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important_ ’.

His fingers are uncontrollable. They shake, tremble and skid. In a moment of luck – Bad luck. Good luck. _Amazing luck._ – he presses the play button instead of the delete button. Merlin’s voice is loud, fuzzy and heavy with tired energy Arthur’s recognises in his own voice lately. 

_“Arthur, it’s Merlin.”_

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs though he swears they weren’t there a moment ago. In the speaker, Merlin is silent. If his breath is steady or quick, Arthur doesn’t know – he can’t hear anything over the thumping of his heart and the anxious way his mind screams _‘Merlin. God, Merlin!’_ after _so – damn – long_. 

_“I usually wouldn’t tell you that – I feel like a twat saying ‘It’s Merlin’, you know? – but it’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve even talked to you, much less seen you, and I think I’m beginning to forget what your voice sounds like so... Maybe you’re forgetting mine, too?”_

Impossible.

_“Right. Probably not. But, I actually called to... I don’t know. Christ, what is wrong with me?”_

Merlin pauses, sighs slowly, tiredly – so tiredly – into the phone and Arthur hears his heart beating faster, feels it tighten and clench in his chest before it expands so wide that he _aches_. It’s always responded to Merlin’s soft silences – his steady breathing, his quiet whispers – but this, this _hurt_ is... New. Scary. Merlin upset is easily recognised. Merlin angry is even easier to hear but this Merlin is empty, devoid – _absent_ , in all sense of the word. 

_“It’s just. I love you, yeah? I mean, I miss you. I – it’s been awful for me. Being without you. Being without you has been..._ Fuck, _Arthur._ ”

The overlapping circles – silver, bright and perfect – on his keys shine. They sparkle, taunt him – dare him to pick them up. They promise him _home_ and _love_ and all the things he’s been denied – and denying himself – for the last two months. 

He pushes them away – sends them to the floor with a muted clatter, his eyes watching as they land on the plush carpet away from the light, where they no longer gleam quite so promisingly.

_“Just – start being the prat I know you are. Tell them to fuck off, spend a weekend with us.”_

Us. Merlin and Freya. Freya and Merlin. _Us._

Not too long ago, us had been Arthur and Merlin. _Us_ had been _happy_ , sans the orphan girl who had only come into their life because Arthur wanted Merlin – to keep Merlin, to have Merlin without fear of losing his father’s opinion and the career that made it possible to meet Merlin, visit him and fall in love with him.

Fuck if that opinion means anything now.

_“Come home, Arthur. Please. If you could – Fuck. – Just – I miss you, okay? I miss you and... Yeah. I miss you.”_

If Merlin says goodbye, Arthur doesn’t hear it. He never will.  
An automated voice tells him his message has been deleted and there’s no coming back from long, _long_ gone.

: : :

“You’re not used to sharing.” Morgana pushes a cherry tomato past her lips, giving Arthur’s frustrated look a one-shoulder shrug. The Providores is slow for lunch on a Wednesday; only a quiet hum of voices surrounds them and Arthur hears very clearly when Morgana sighs, resigned, a moment later. “He’s not abandoning you; he’s doing what you asked him to – becoming a parent. If you were so worried about someone else monopolizing your time with Merlin, maybe you should have told Uther to piss off when he told you he wanted an heir.”

Arthur tries to imagine taking a seat in his father’s office, pressing his back against the padded chair and waiting the few moments that it’ll take Uther to finish putting the flourish on the ‘Pendragon’ in his signature. Then he tries to imagine looking into his father’s eyes, not trembling or anxious, and saying, “Piss off, I don’t want an heir if it means I have to lose Merlin.”

He can’t even bring himself to _consider_ saying something like that, not even for Merlin. Aloud, he scoffs and stabs his duck breast just a little too viciously, attracting a couple of curious glances when his fork slides straight through to clink against the china. The man just to the right of him, a table over but very close to Arthur’s side on the long leather bench, shuffles a little closer to the middle of the table and doesn’t dare meet Arthur’s eye. 

Being ostracised by the stranger frustrates him further.

“One doesn’t just look Uther in the eye and tell him to _piss off_ ,” he explains under his breath, slicing a plum in half before stabbing it and a piece of duck with his fork. He chews slowly, hardly tasting anything, and thinks that while Morgana’s sentiment is nice, she’s suggesting the impossible. “He hasn’t given us a hard time; it’s presumptuous to assume that our problems are his fault –”

“Children are stressful,” Morgana cuts in. She points her fork at him, pushes it a little closer to punctuate her speech, “marriage – relationships, full stop – are all easy and fun until you throw money and babies into the mix. No more weeks away in Italy, bathing on the beaches and having loud, unbelievably amazing sex” – the man beside them moves further away, his wife gives Morgana a dark glare – “in ocean front rooms. Nights of worry-free sleep are gone now, Arthur. You’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if that little boy is okay, where he is when he’s not with you and what he’s doing when he’s away. You’ll hate the world for ruining his carefree nature, for forcing him to be an adult and you’ll hate yourself for not saving him from every scraped knee and bumped head. The easy part of your relationship was before all of this, Arthur. You gave him what he wanted; now you have to face that fact that things are going to change because of it. Are you going to change with them?”

“Are you?” she questions more intently a moment later. “Arthur?”

He’s not sure. 

: : :

Florence and the Machine is announcing that the dog days are over while Freya sings along from her bedroom, door wide open and shadow dancing over the floor in the hall. It's noon on a Friday; Merlin's likely just starting his shift at the hospital and Arthur will be stuck listening to Freya's crooning and keeping his distance from her paint-dripping hands for the rest of the evening.

Fucking fantastic.

Heaving his briefcase and bag from Sainsbury's onto the table, he notices there is a tear in the orange fabric and his much needed energy drink and the package of fruit and nuts Merlin asked he pick up for Freya have slipped out and disappeared somewhere between the car park and his flat. Over his face, through his hair and eventually back down to his sides, Arthur's hands shake slightly with his fury. The day has been too long already. He hates the fact that a silly orange bag has added insult to injury.

"You dropped something."

Arthur turns, following the direction of Freya's finger and sees that his relatively unscathed energy drink is indeed less than three steps behind him. "Wish it was the fruit and nuts; then I wouldn't have to go back," he mutters. 

Freya ' _hmmm_ 's when steps past Arthur to the kitchen. Cupboard doors open, shut and open again until she calls, "I have some in the cupboard." A moment later she comes back, a tiny plastic package in one hand and the other hand, smeared with red and brown paint just like Arthur expected, is pressed against her outstretched belly, bare to the world and splattered with paint as well. Merlin bought her a set of her own two weeks ago. He came home, practically falling through the door with a case full of colours and an arm full of fresh white canvases. Arthur hasn't seen much of Freya since then but he's happy to see she's making use of the things Merlin has provided her with – not just art but the fresh pair of maternity jeans and the soft cotton t-shirt she doesn't have to worry about getting dirty (though she's clearly become accustomed to rolling it up over her belly, trying to save it despite having half a dozen others just like it). She looks fuller than when he first met her, all puns aside. Her face is rounder, less hallow and more bright – filled with youth that it lacked before Merlin took her under his wing, gave her a home and love she didn't seem to quite understand until months later. 

Arthur loves Merlin for his ability to make people better. It's more than just the hospital for him, more than a stray like Freya with no real home and no money to speak of. To Merlin, it's not even a very big deal; he does it almost subconsciously, only realising later that the people he's helping aren't his friends or people he's likely to ever meet again. When he sees a homeless man – weary, tired and frail – wasting away on a corner, he doesn't think twice before handing him his sandwich and juice with a smile and a "have a better day" and it reminds Arthur that somewhere in that wiry body, older now and a lot more stern, the loud-mouthed, brazen man he fell in love with is still there.

"I've been painting," Freya tells him from around a mouthful of dried fruit. "Mostly pictures of Merlin; he's been very all-encompassing lately but... I started one of you, too. Would you... Would you like to see it? I mean, if you're okay with... Me. I mean, me painting you because–"

"Whatever inspires you, Freya," Arthur tells her, cutting her off before she trips over her words any further. He can't decide if he loves or hates her inability of finish a sentence. It's endearing in the same way Merlin's made-up insults are and he wonders if his son will trip over every other word, too. He can't imagine a politician who can't speak properly and... he rather likes the idea of his son not following in the family footsteps, of breaking the pattern and daring to be different like Freya and Merlin are.

Like Arthur can't bring himself to be.

"You inspire me." It's said softly, almost too quietly to hear, and Arthur stills as he goes to walk away. His mind shuts down as Freya's fingers touch his palm. When did she get so close? When did her body – so small in most places and beautifully rounded in the very centre – step so near to his?  
Carefully, almost as though maybe Arthur would break with just the barest touch of her fingers to his wrist, Freya guides him toward her open door, blatantly ignoring the way Arthur says "My mobile is ringing" and "it could be an emergency." Freya tells him "work can wait" and gives him a little nudge through the threshold of her room, light shining across the floor brightly and casting warm yellow beams over the unfinished canvas against the wall.

It's all coal, swift grey lines that are hard and defined, not the easy swoops and gentle streaks that compose Merlin's portrait beside his. Opposite of Merlin's over-wide smile, Arthur traces the picture with his eyes and thinks he looks a little lost – as though even in art form, he can't find what he's looking for. There's nothing gentle about him and when she says, "I can't finish it... I don't know what's missing" Arthur knows exactly what she means. Amongst a dozen finished canvases of Merlin, the Thames and London as seen from Freya's window, Arthur's is the only one without colour or clarity – without completion. 

He starts to like her, looks forward to her smiles and sometimes after they share lunch while Merlin is at the hospital, she goes back to her room and adds specks of colour to Arthur's picture – an extra line around his mouth or a splash of custom-mixed blue around his eyes. Arthur thinks that maybe he's starting to find himself and when Merlin catches his hand under the table, squeezing his fingers lovingly during dinner while Arthur's mobile buzzes unanswered in the living room, he knows that even if it isn't himself he's finding, he's happy with the results and owes Freya a great deal for the unintentional (or entirely too intentional) insight.

_-m._

"It's perfect," Gwen praises, standing in the middle of the nursery with her hands pressed excitedly to her face. Her brown eyes trace the compass painted around the light at the centre of the ceiling and the antique ship wheel anchored over the dark wood crib. On the shelves, beside rows of children's books and framed pictures of Merlin, Freya and Arthur, the model ships are perfect additions to nautical theme they aimed to create. Accents in deep red and navy blue add a bit of colour to the soft beige walls and water-view from the window. Gwen takes in all of it, stepping from one corner to another with slow steps and awe-struck glances. "I can't believe you guys are having a baby," she says a moment later, voice sweet and warm as she embraces Merlin tightly. "Yesterday you were calling him a wanker and storming out to save your mobile from his 'posh, perfect hands' and now... Merlin, when did this happen? Where has time gone?"

"That _was_ yesterday," Arthur replies, looking amused as he leans against the door jamb and watches the scene, "and the day before, and the day before _that_ as well."

Merlin tells him to shut up but smiles all the same, too in love with the slightly-crooked smile Arthur gives him a second later. Freya's pregnancy has been a rollercoaster of emotions for all of them, too many downs and not nearly enough ups, but over the last two months Arthur's spent more time at home and invested himself more in the family, taken them all out for greasy fish and chips and ignored two or three text messages a day to give Merlin a few extra minutes to finish a funny story from the hospital or listening to Freya explain how many different shades of blue she's mixed in the last two weeks in an effort to make the perfect shade to match Merlin's eyes. 

And it's those few extra moments, the quick nods of acknowledgement and Arthur's recent willingness to press his hands to Freya's belly and feel the baby move that have made all the difference in Merlin's life as of late. Things have been easier, more enjoyable and he's loved spending late nights painting the nursery with Arthur and calling out baby names from a list so that Arthur and Freya could yell "It's _all right_ ", "What the hell, Merlin? _No_ " or "That... I need more time for that." 

They've even sung, terrible and out of tune, together in the kitchen over glasses of wine for Merlin and Arthur and juice for Freya. Arthur belts out, 'girl tell me how you feel' while Freya follows up with, 'what's your fantasy'. Merlin laughs, answering, 'I see us on a beach down in Mexico' a moment later and it's awful and wonderful all at once – something Merlin never expected from Arthur after watching him build his shell one piece at a time.

Rare and new, Merlin loved every moment of it and smiles now when he remembers it, watching Freya waddle slightly to the doorway to stand beside Arthur. He tries to picture Arthur's hair and eyes in Freya's face; her messy hands and Arthur's serious expression on a child he'll watch toddle into primary school and wave easily before leaving for University. 

It's a full and all-empowering feeling that blooms in his chest at the thought. 

"Have you picked his name?" Gwen asks, not looking at any of them specifically. Merlin thinks she might not know who to ask when he, Arthur and Freya are all standing beside one another just inside the room, looking every bit in love with the nursery as Gwen is.

Freya pipes up, quick and forward, to answer: "Oliver." A moment later, she adds: "It was the only thing we all agreed on, even if it is really popular."

Arthur scoffs slightly, rolls his eyes and says, "There was nothing wrong with Archibald" over Freya's mumbled, "There were plenty of things wrong with Archibald."

For a moment, Merlin lets himself imagine that things are going to be okay, better – perfect.

: : :

The nurse knows Merlin – most of them do – and Merlin recognises her from occasionally passing in the corridors. Her name badge tells him her name is Ami and her fair hair is wrapped in a neat knot at the base of her neck, loose tendrils framing her face and the tight smile she gives he and Arthur when she walks out. It's a smile small enough to be reserved or baring terrible news and he sits, silent and wondering, watching her as she makes her way down the hall with steady steps before she stops in front of them both and says, "Merlin and Arthur, I've heard a lot about you."

If she expects an answer, a response of some sort, she doesn't wait for it. She squats down in front of Merlin, taking one anxious hand within her own and reaches up with the other to brush the fringe out of his hair. He hadn't combed it before he left, too rushed with trying to remember all the things to bring and keeping on hand on Freya's arm while she gasped and panted, a hand over her stomach and her voice unsteady when she said 'Christ', ' _Uuugh_ ' and 'There's not enough money in the _world_ '. 

Now, though, looking down at Ami's pale green eyes, he notices that this is a position they stand in when they're prepared to bring bad news. Just like parents move down to look up at their children when teaching them important lessons, nurses around him have always tended to get down and look up at the families they were preparing to give bad news to, to give them a feeling of still being somewhat in control despite the fact that they are terribly and irrevocably _out of control_. "He's perfect," she starts, teeth bright in the hospital lighting, "ten fingers, ten toes and seems to have a lot to say."

" _But_ ," Arthur prompts a moment later, his voice quivering in a way that makes Merlin's heart race even faster. If Arthur – undeniably strong Arthur who is always in control – is worried, Merlin has good reason to be absolutely _terrified_. 

And he is. Absolutely _fucking_ terrified.

"Freya lost a lot of blood," says Ami slowly, fingers tightening to hold Merlin's when he moves to pull away, "but they're doing their very best in there, I swear it. I just wanted you to know that Oliver is here, doing well and they'll be bringing him to you soon."

He hates the squeaking noise her shoes make when she walks away and, for the rest of the time he works at St Thomas, he won't be able to look her in the eye when they pass in the hall. It's terrible, how gentle she looked when she said it, when she mentioned that Freya's life was up in the air but the baby was fine – like it would make it better; make his worry for Freya mute in excitement for Oliver.

"That's not what she meant," Arthur says, as though he's reading Merlin's mind. "It's going to be... Merlin, look here" – he grips Merlin's chin, fingers biting hand against his jaw and he looks so completely _devoted_ – "they're going to take care of her, yeah?"

Merlin supposes they do take care of her; they do the very best they can. That's what the doctor says when he meets them an hour later, hair plastered to his forehead and hands shaking. "We did the very best we could; she lost blood faster than we could replace it and... I'm so sorry, Merlin – Arthur."

He's not sure how long he sits there, face pressed against Arthur's neck and tears soaking Arthur's jumper when they run down his cheeks. All he hears is, "I've got you" and "It'll be fine, Merlin; It'll be fine" between the squeaking shoes belonging to nurses who stop, ask if they need anything or if they're ready to see the baby. "We..." Arthur starts once, the word low and deep and gone before he says anything more.

But Merlin knows what he was prepared to say, what he stopped himself from saying. 'We killed her' because Merlin is thinking the same thing, too. He's running through memories of meeting her, of her wrinkled floral dress and of all her unfinished paintings scattered around _her room_ in _their home_ because the only reason she did this was _for them_. Maybe in the beginning it was about the money, about her going to University to study art and about her desire to be independent and better off before it even really started, Oliver became her way of giving back to Arthur and Merlin both – it became her attempt to help them heal their relationship; fraying and fragile and splintering dangerously down the centre more and more every day. They gave her a home, a place to start, and she gave them a future, a reason to keep going. 

"It's our fault."

Arthur's fingers pause, pressed in Merlin's hair as he holds him close, and then tighten, pulling Merlin's wet face even closer. "No," he says firmly, "No, it's not your fault."

Merlin notices how Arthur specifies that it's not his fault, but doesn't say that it isn't _Arthur's_ either. He thinks, bitter and angry and sad, that perhaps Arthur is right. Maybe it is Arthur's fault, after all. 

_-m._

He pulls his scrubs from the edge of the bed and slips into them, loving the soft feel of the worn cotton. They've his favourites, a reminder of meeting Arthur in Caffe Nero and the few months that followed where Arthur often surprised him with coffee on Friday afternoons in A &E or picked him up after work to take him to dinner, ignoring Merlin's protests to let him go home and change clothes first. 

"I love your orange scrubs," Arthur used to say, lips lifted in the corners, treacherously inviting, "you look like an absolute idiot in them; I feel loads smarter just looking at you."

He loves them even more when Oliver grips the edge of his shirt with wet fingers and says, 'wornge, daddy. _Worage_ ' until Merlin has to force himself through the door and down the hall, contemplating calling in sick the entire way. 

They're his absolute favourites.

"Afternoon shift, then?" Arthur asks when Merlin comes into the kitchen, shoes speaking over the floor in the way they both hate. He nods, silent, and reaches for a cold bottle of water in the fridge. Shifts at the hospital have been awkward, varying from week to week and Arthur hates that Merlin sometimes doesn't know when he's meant to work until Friday evenings but Merlin doesn't complain because he's happy to have his weekends there, a tiny break from home every day. Since Oliver's birthday, things have been subdued. The pattern they'd grown in to – dinner as a quiet affair, reading with Oliver in their bed before sending him off to his and nights on the sofa with the telly until it was time to sleep – has been disturbed, uprooted and made impossible. Arthur is too quiet, too lost in thought most days to respond to Merlin's attempts to strike up conversation and when Arthur wants to talk, to straighten things out, they end up arguing over Uther and work and, though they never mention her by name, Freya, it all falls right back to pieces.

They only time they talk is after sex, when they're both too tired to turn away from one another and high on the memory of what they used to be – what sex was like when there was no blame for Freya's death or silent argument about Uther's control over their lives fizzling between them all the time. Arthur sometimes says, "I feel like I'm losing you," and his eyes, so blue and sad, nearly kill Merlin when he replies, "I feel like I already have." 

Merlin draws himself away from his memories, the little bit of bitterness he feels creeping in his mind. He presses his fingers to a wrinkle in Arthur's almost perfectly pressed Versace button-down, easing imaginary wrinkles. It reminds him of the one he ruined that first day, the coffee he'd splashed across the front on accident and the second cup he'd done entirely on purpose, "Are you taking Oliver to the zoo still?"

He steps away, taking a sip of his water. It's cool, the sudden rush of cold makes him shiver just slightly. Arthur looks away, through the archway of the kitchen and past the dining table to the window; his finger tracing the place Merlin's hand had been a moment earlier. The Thames is busy, London chaotic even from a distance. 

Merlin doesn't appreciate it one bit. He's too busy watching the way Arthur shrugs one shoulder in an attempt to be casual and says, "My father asked us to visit for tea."

_Of course_ Uther asked them to visit for tea. Uther – the same man who smiles at Merlin's face while he criticises Oliver's intelligence and never directly says that he doesn't approve of Merlin's existence but doesn't go out of his way to mention the fact that he's noticed all of the good things Merlin has done for Arthur, the ways he's changed him and what he's taught him – has a wonderful habit of inviting Arthur for tea on weekends he knows Merlin has to work. 

"I don't want to argue," Arthur starts; lifting his hand up and showing Merlin his palm in a 'stop, now' motion completed with a head shake and closed eyes. "It's noon on a Saturday, you're going to work and this is the only time we'll have together before you go. Please, Merlin just let it go."

He's not sure what about Arthur's comment makes him angry. Maybe it's the way he makes it seem like Merlin is the issue, the one who starts the arguments when Merlin can remember more than one vicious verbal assault that Arthur cooked up all on his own... or perhaps not what he said, but the gesture he made while he said it. The sweeping hand motion, all business, no feeling, and the way Merlin hates Arthur's hands now because he's seen that palm more than once telling him to be quiet when it should be holding him, pressing against his heart and spreading it's warmth through him when he feels lonely.

Like today. Like right now in the middle of his kitchen, Arthur in front of him and Oliver in the living room banging pots and trying to find a way to climb into the oversized box that came with Arthur's new sound system – another way, Merlin assumes, to drown out his noise. 

He takes a long pull off of his water bottle, appreciating the distraction, and tugs his shoulder free when Arthur moves to squeeze it in an act that might be encouraging, promising, if it wasn't Arthur doing it. "Don't start," he warns, his gaze focused on the chipping paint on the cabinet just over Arthur's shoulder, "I really don't want to talk about this any more."

"Are you really going to act this way because we're going for tea with my father, Merlin?"

Because it must be something so simple and petty; the family idiot Merlin wouldn't have a real reason to be angry, would he? "No, I'm not going to bother. You won't listen anyway."

And it's true. Arthur never listens. Merlin's words pass in one ear and out of the other most days. For example, the day Uther rang Merlin's mobile and asked when he'd like the new nanny to start her job. "She's been interviewed," Uther had explained, seeming annoyed with Merlin's quick, firm refusal, "and she's more than qualified. The boy is behind and requires aid from a practised professional." 

When Merlin had tried to discuss it with Arthur that night over dinner, he'd received little communication in return. Arthur had 'hmm'd and 'ahhh'd and said, "Well, Merlin, he's just looking to give Oliver the best education possible." Unsurprisingly, he hadn't had anything to say in response when Merlin had replied, "Why? So he can make Oliver another you – pushed into a career he doesn't even enjoy and walking on eggshells every day, hardly allowed to be who he wants to be while living under your watchful eye?"

That night Arthur fucked Merlin so hard he'd bit his lip till it bled, nails digging into the soft skin of Arthur's back and relishing in the feel of Arthur's frustration – his anger, his want – the first real emotion he'd given to Merlin and no one else in far too long.

A week later, Uther had arrived uninvited with books about teaching children proper etiquette. When Merlin had entered the living room, arms crossed over his chest and jeans torn at the knee – his favourite pair, loose and comfortable – Uther had even dared to point directly at him and say, "We'd rather the next Pendragon not live and behave like Merlin" and had refused to acknowledge when Merlin said, "You're standing in _my home_ insulting me? Where do you get off?"

If Uther would have responded to Arthur, Merlin will never be sure. Arthur had just sat there, head cocked tiredly to the side and blue eyes, partially hidden under his messy blond fringe, tired and unwilling to look away from their disinterested staring at the open pages of the book before him. 

"For someone who claims to not want to argue, you sure do know how to pick a fight."

Laughing humorously, Merlin says, "I'm so tired of this with you; you can't be your father's perfect son, Oliver's dad and my... You've been telling him all week you were going to take him to the zoo; you can't take that back because your father wants to teach him which fork is his salad fork."

"He's hardly more than eighteen months old, he doesn't care if I take him to the zoo or not."

"That's not true," insists Merlin. He feels the thin plastic of his water bottle flex inward under his fingers, crumbling in his hand. "This is the time when they start to build and understand trust, Arthur. If you make and break promises, he'll grow up assuming everyone will. It'll be all he understands."

Arthur scoffs, face red, and says, "Because you're the parent expert." 

Merlin is quick to retort, "I'm done with this; I'm going to work." 

He expects to come home and get the cold shoulder, a couple extra inches between he and Arthur on the sofa while they watch telly before bed and to face Arthur's back rather than be offered his shoulder as a pillow. What he doesn't expect is for Arthur to smack the palm of his hand against the worktop, Oliver's head rising in the next room to stare at them through the open alcove. Unexpectedly, Arthur says, "You know what, Merlin? That's fine – be done. Go to work, leave your keys; you won't be needing them."

There's a quick, silent second where Merlin hears nothing. London is quiet even though the window is wide open, Oliver is still with his hand gripping at the edge of Arthur's box and Arthur himself says nothing, breathing steady and staring firmly, unwavering. "Fine," Merlin mumbles a moment later, sound returning all at once – too loud, too busy – as he steps forward, pushes past Arthur and reaches for Oliver, hands outstretched, welcoming. "Come on, Oliver; come with daddy."

"Leave him."

"No," argues Merlin, firm. He half-turns, Oliver's body rising to toddle toward him in the corner of his eye. His bright red polo is gorgeous on him, brings out all colour of his skin and hair, his endless blue eyes and for a flashing moment Merlin thinks of a tiny Arthur, toddling toward a nanny who only wants to see him walk, doesn't want to welcome him to her arms. 

It makes sense, when he thinks about the callous way Arthur moves into the room and intercepts Oliver, lifting him from the floor and into his arms, leaving Merlin's dreadfully empty as he says, "Oliver stays."

Frozen.

He is completely frozen, stuck on the little patch of carpet watching Arthur's eyes, waiting for the tension to ease and for him to say 'I'm sorry', 'never mind' or 'what am I thinking? No, stay' because despite all their minor arguments, their stilted last two years, he's never considered _the end_. He's never stayed up at night and thought, 'what will I do if I leave? If Arthur makes me leave?' because it seemed completely unfathomable. He'd given up his friends in Devon, his job and his mum to come to London, to be with Arthur and be part of the family Arthur wanted – or needed, rather, because Arthur never seemed to _want_ to be part of the family he'd asked for. 

He'd already left everything before, why would he do it again? Why would he leave Oliver and the memories of Freya permanently etched into each corner of the flat he and Arthur had shared with her? 

Nothing was worth leaving all of it behind. _Nothing_.

"We'll discuss all of this Monday," Arthur prods. "Spend the weekend with your mum, we'll figure it out just..." Now he looks defeated and Merlin thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's changing his mind – reconsidering. "Just go. I'm not going to argue with you any more."

"I'm not–"

" _Go_ , Merlin."

His keys make a merry, taunting sound with they fall into the bowl beside the door, jingling against the deep red ceramic. He throws his credit card in there too, only keeps his mobile and the cash in his pocket for the trip home. When he reaches the end of the corridor, feet touching the first stair and forcing the rest of his body to follow, his mum answers with a warm, "Merlin, how're you?"

The façade, strong and seemingly unwavering, fades. He mumbles, "I'm coming home, mum, for probably longer than a couple of days."

  
**[PART II]**   
_eighteen months later_   


_-a._

Though his solicitor (a greying man named Mister James Newman who comes highly recommended by the other men at work but, when mentioned to women in the office, tends to create a slightly constipated, angry look that makes Arthur nervous) informs him numerous times over the first year of he and Merlin's separation that their arrangement is too generous on Arthur's part, he thinks it's rather perfect. He picks Oliver up promptly at five o'clock on Friday from Merlin's house in Oxford, keeps him for the weekend and, on Sunday around noon, Merlin retrieves him for the week. Arthur knows he doesn't have the time Oliver deserves, the patience for things like potty training and spelling. More than that, he thinks a little less of Merlin when Oliver isn't around.

They are fair, understanding and willing to bend to the occasional change of plan for one another. All in all, they make a better team now than they ever did before.

"The manor was too much," Newman says, his voice gritty through the mobile speaker, "and adding a brand new car on top of it was ridiculous. I'm here to help you, Arthur, but I can’t if you insist on doing the _exact opposite_ of what I suggest. Benevolence doesn't even _begin_ to cover this situation! I spoke to your father –"

"Who has no business speaking to you about any matter pertaining to Merlin, Oliver and I. Is there nothing in our contract that dictates privacy?"

"Of course there is, Arthur; you put it there yourself. However, I didn't give him any information relating to your case, I merely listened to his wizened opinion – one you should consider yourself before handing over those documents."

Arthur turns, all too familiar with this area Oxfordshire after months of wrong-turns and weekly visits before Merlin even moved in. The trees, slowly transforming to brown and gold, line parts of the street and hide the wide brick manor houses behind them from view while others stand out for the world to see, curtains tied apart and widows peeking open to let in the autumn air. It smells like the changing seasons, warmth seeping from the air and wetness settling around them, reacquainting them with shorter days and longer nights one day at a time. "Merlin deserves them," Arthur replies slowly, firmly, "and if we'd been married, he would have received more so I don't think–"

"But you weren't married, not even close, and the fact is–"

"The fact is that the house is Merlin's, the car is Merlin's and I'm not taking them – _Christ_." Of course, as he says this, shouts Merlin's praises and defends his worth, he turns in to the manor's drive and is struck speechless by the twisted, distorted rear of the same Audi that had been perfect and spotless less than a week ago. 

It seems Merlin is expecting him, standing just inside the clear glass window with his hands deep in his pockets and his oversized jumper bunching around his wrists. Eyes weary, anxious, he meet's Arthur's gaze and shakes his head, dark fringe brushing across his forehead. Though Newman repeats "Arthur? Arthur, what's wrong?" over and over in his ear, all Arthur can think is how gorgeous Merlin is even when he looks slightly worn out, teeth nipping at his lower lip and arm pushing open the front door.

As he climbs free of the driver's seat and informs Newman that yes, he is fine and no, he doesn't need any help but of course, he'll call later, he remembers Merlin's voice when he'd rang after the accident, the easy way he'd said ' _oh, never mind_ ' like there was nothing at all to worry about. 

Clearly, though, the tangled metal behind the car tells a different story. "Merlin," Arthur starts slowly, stepping closer to inspect the bumper-less, practically unrecognisable Audi with fingers shaking in anger and warmth rising up from his neck, "When you said 'Someone hit me – Oh, never mind', I thought you meant 'Someone hit me – Oh, never mind, it's just a scratch.' I didn't realise that 'oh, never mind' meant 'oh, the back is gone and my car is totalled, but _never mind_.'"

"I was angry, too," Merlin admits, "But it was an accident, Arthur. There's no need to get so–"

Arthur turns on his heel, fingers digging in the pocket of his trousers in an attempt to fish out his ringing mobile, knowing already that it's likely his father with a request for tea tomorrow afternoon. "No need to get angry, Merlin?" he bites, watching as Merlin's lips press together angrily. "It's a fifty-five thousand pound car! More than that, my son was _in it_!"

"Don't you think I know that? You seem to forget that _I_ was there and he's _my_ son, as well."

With a sigh, a tired quiet release of breath, Arthur cards a hand through his hair. Merlin does something similar, standing slightly crooked and leaning against the untouched side of his car with a stiff look to him that tells Arthur he feels just as dismal about the accident as Arthur does, if not more. 

"So long as you exchanged insurance information," Arthur tries, attempting to look slightly less angry when Merlin nods, retrieving a tattered piece of paper from his pocket and handing it over without a word. Arthur doesn't look at it, just shoves it deep within his pocket and nods. "Good. Alright."

They've tried too hard to make this work, struggled for too long to blow this arrangement out of the water over a poor choice of words and an accident that wasn't even Merlin's fault. The first six months of their separation had been impossible, filled with Oliver's teary face and train rides from (hell) London to Devon when Merlin's soft, sad voice through the speaker of Arthur's mobile wasn't enough to settle him. He'd spent hours at Merlin's mum's kitchen table, the heels of his hands pressed frustrated into his eyes and his mind still trained on Merlin's stolen notes – scribbled ideas on how to afford a flat of his own and Oliver's needs on a limited work schedule, all between thrice weekly trips from Devon to London and back. 

All because Merlin needed Oliver – wanted him just as wholly as he'd once wanted Arthur. 

"Oliver is mine, too," Merlin had argued furiously, fingers curling over the aged oak table in the solicitor's office this time last year. He'd been poorly dressed for the meeting – shirt wrinkled, trainers covered in mud from running in the rain to make the appointment on time ("The fucking train was late, Arthur. What was I meant to do? _Walk_ from Devon?") and the skin around his eyes was dark and hollowed. It was the worst state Arthur had ever seen him in, even worse than the pictures of Merlin's short-lived university days when money was hard to come by and his trousers didn't reach past his ankles. He couldn't help but feel a little awful in his Armani suit and shoes, car keys heavy in his pocket and umbrella neatly folded at his side, droplets of rainwater pooling on to the stainless flooring. 

If they'd still been together, Merlin wouldn't have been living with his mum out of a small box of clothes he'd managed to collect before he got tired of Arthur watching and left. He wouldn't have had to face a solicitor's judging gaze as he explained that no, he didn't make a lot of money but he could make more if they gave him time and no, he didn't have a flat of his own but his mum's flat had three bedrooms and a view of the coast if you stood on your tip-toes in front of the window. It was a view no solicitor cared much about when arguing for custody rights Merlin wasn't really entitled to anyway. 

"To hell with who came in the cup, I've been with him since the _beginning_ ," he'd tried again, the vulgar commentary a response Arthur knew was typical when he felt like his back was against a wall. 

Arthur knew then that there would be no keeping Merlin away, that there would never be another man or woman in the world who could be to Oliver what Merlin wanted to be, deserved to be and he'd stopped Mister Newman before he'd had a chance to speak and said, "I've been looking into manors in Oxford. A car of your own and some patience might make this work."

Now Arthur just gives up, gives in and settles with, "How is Oliver?" as they make their way to the door, leaving behind the memories of unnecessary solicitor meetings and quiet nights in Devon waiting for Oliver to fall blissfully to sleep in Merlin's arms only for Arthur to take him home right after.

"Good, yeah. I... Thank you, again." Merlin's voice is a quiet, soft. It reminds Arthur of the nights he worked twelve hours in A&E with no break – accident after accident keeping him busy through the evening, gracing him with little time to think or consider what he was seeing until he padded through the door at eight in the morning with an empty stomach, a splitting headache and one heart-breaking tale after another.

The familiar ache in Arthur's chest starts to burn and he wishes they were still in a place where reaching for Merlin's fingers and whispering that everything was going to be okay was acceptable. It's all he knows after all this time, unable to learn how to hate Merlin or watch him suffer and be okay with it. He's felt nothing but Merlin for as long as he can remember, living in his life in colour and clarity only after Merlin came along and showed him how. This distance, the muddled state things are in now, is relatively recent and it's hard to fathom that years of practice, of learning each other and loving each other, fell apart as quickly as it did.

"It sounds melodramatic, but I don't think I could have lived without him," Merlin says, looking toward the ivy-covered walls of the manor.

But he doesn't mention living without Arthur. And that, though expected, bothers him more than he knows it should.

It's worse knowing that the manor they're standing before is the kind of place they might have shared if Merlin had stayed, had fought for Arthur and their relationship and not tucked tail and ran because Arthur told him to. He realises it's stupid to be angry with Merlin for listening but he can't help but feel like if Merlin had really wanted to be there for him, not just for Oliver, they wouldn't be having this conversation right now, standing in front of the manor that Arthur paid for but belongs solely to Merlin. They'd be looking at houses like this together, touring with the blonde estate agent who'd asked Arthur questions like, "Are you planning on having more children?" and "Is this the kind of neighbourhood your wife would like?", looking oddly excited when Arthur had explained that he was not married, recently separated and looking to provide his ex with a nice place to raise their son. 

He left out the fact that Merlin was a man. At the time, he'd thought that maybe in a month or two he might be willing to take her to dinner and see where things went. Later, he felt sick to his stomach just thinking about touching anyone else and sent her a prompt e-mail, explaining the things Merlin liked to help her narrow her search and using plenty of 'he's and 'his' to get the point across. 

In the grand scheme of things, at the very end of the day, their time is over – they've run out of their chances and wasted their time and Arthur knows he shouldn't feel the eerie clench in his stomach, the indescribable tightness in his chest when he watches a girl jog past him in the park and wonders if she makes lasagne as well as Merlin or sees a man in Starbucks who smiles and glances slightly longer than necessary, forcing Arthur to leave entirely because his eyes are too _green_.

All that's left is Oliver, the last thing in the world they share, and if giving Merlin the world means that Oliver is happy, Arthur is willing to do that. 

And if it has anything to do with the way Arthur's chest warms, toes curling involuntarily in his shoes when Merlin shoots him a tiny, grateful smile – the closest thing to happiness Arthur has seen from him in months, longer if he tries to remember when the smile was directed at _him_ – then that's no one's business but his own because he's a man who makes choices and sticks with them, doesn't beg for people to take them back more than a year after he's determined he's had enough.

It's like changing his political party (or worse, not getting into politics at all) after centuries of Pendragons served the people and fought to keep the government conservative. 

"He's through here," Merlin says, motioning to the living room across the hall. Arthur can hear the distinct sound of Oliver's dinosaur noises and rapid speech meant to be repetition of whatever educational show is on the telly, the kinds of things he's too intelligent for already. "He's been asking for you, of course – misses you during the week."

"Funny," replies Arthur, truly meaning it, "He asks for you all weekend long. I swear he has a countdown in his mind of the number of hours he has until he's back with you."

Merlin smiles, shrugs. "Grass is always greener on the other side."

He wishes that when he picks Oliver up, his first instinct isn't to say, "My god, you've grown since Sunday" and when he goes to leave, buckling Oliver in his car seat and backing slowly to the street, that Merlin wasn't standing in the doorway of the house, waving pitifully and looking completely and totally alone. 

: : :

Oliver insists on playing One Direction on repeat the entire way to London. Arthur glances in the rear view mirror every five minutes or so to watch his son's bow-shaped lips murmur along with the song while his wide blue eyes watch the passing traffic through the window. His blonde hair is a mess under his beanie, stray locks peeking out over his forehead and his ears, making him look like an earlier member of a future boy band all of his own.

By the time they near London, Arthur doesn't think he'll be able to forget the lyrics to One Thing in thirty years, much less tonight, and that's just not fair.

"Daddy's coming to London," says Oliver from behind him, eyes still trained out the window but not focused on anything in particular. They dart from one corner to the next, taking in each passing person and examining each hanging sign. "Why can't we go to dinner with 'Waine, too?"

Arthur takes a moment, tries to pick through Oliver's words and process them in his head. Merlin in London, dinner with... who? He asks Oliver, attempting to sound interested rather than investigative, and almost has to laugh when Oliver rolls his eyes, throws his arms in the air and says, "'Waine, papa. Mister 'Waine hit daddy's car, 'member?"

"I wasn't there when Wayne hit your daddy's car, remember?" Arthur isn't as worried about Oliver's less than perfect pronunciation as he is about the fact that Merlin, in some strange turn of events, managed to secure a dinner date out of a _car accident_.

Then, when he rolls over thoughts of their first meeting, he thinks that Merlin secured a date out of him over an accident, too. But spilled coffee over a shirt Arthur bought from himself and a car accident (involving a fifty-five thousand pound car Arthur paid for) that could have seriously injured more than just Merlin and _Wayne_ is very, very different. "Was Wayne sorry he hit daddy's car?"

"No," replies Oliver after a second of thought, his little nose drawing up and his lips pursing, considering, "but he took us to Atomic Burger for lunch." The reverence in his voice at the thought of burgers is both humorous and terrible. Arthur can't decide which fits best. A moment later, he adds, "I like 'Waine."

Arthur says, "That's good." His fingers tighten over the leather wheel, eyes focused on their building nearing in the corner of his eye. He tries to rationalise that they've been apart for more than a year, that it's natural for Merlin to start dating. They're still too young to give up on love and sex and romance completely. _Of course_ Merlin is going to go to dinner with another bloke when Oliver isn't there; of course he'll take advantage of his empty house, empty bed and...

Arthur doesn't care. Not really. He made the decision, after all. He sent Merlin elsewhere, put an hour long drive between them for his own benefit. If he still wanted Merlin, he could have him. He's not worried, not bothered in the slightest.

Not until Morgana texts a few hours later. _Merlin is here with his gorgeous, funny and incredibly fit new beau. If I decide to say hello, how do I introduce myself? 'I'm Morgana; Merlin's ex's half-sister'?_

Then he cares. A lot. 

_-m._

"London, politics and yes," he answers swiftly, rolling his eyes just a little when Gwaine mummers 'Oh, _politics. That's_ descriptive' in response. "He lives in London, works in politics – you didn't ask what he does, specially – and Oliver is his, of course. I answered your questions."

The pub is more like what Merlin enjoys, very different from the places he and Arthur used to frequent and though it bothers him more than a little to be right around the corner from a place he once called home, he tries to focus on his pint and his greasy fish and chips more than the fact that Arthur is a short walk away with Oliver and he could be there, with them, spending Saturday night curled on the sofa watching Disney films and eating popcorn. 

If Gwaine notices his distance, he doesn't point it out. He keeps on, asking Merlin about where he's been and what's he's been doing for the last six years. Merlin, in response, tells Gwaine about St. Thomas and his old flat facing the Thames, mornings watching the boats pass and the city come to life when Oliver didn't sleep through the night. They talk about Freya, how talented she was and Merlin has to look away more than once to try and collect himself. It's still a soft spot in his chest, Freya's name, and he admits quietly, almost inaudible over the music, that it's sometimes hard to look at Oliver and not feel like he's lost it all – a house in Oxford, a brand new car and more money than he will ever spend doesn't replace Arthur and Freya in his life.

Which leads to Gwaine's questioning: "So, why did you separate?"

Merlin half-shrugs, says he's not even sure any more. "Stress, I think," he tries a moment later, pausing to take a bite from his chip and consider his answer more thoroughly, "We always argued a bit, clashing personalities, work schedules... normal things. But it wasn't really anything big until his father started pushing for his heir. Then it was surrogates, how often he was working and when Freya died, it all kind started to fall apart. It's been eighteen months and... We haven't argued once. We work better as parents this way, I think – apart. He bought my car and my house, furnished it all so Oliver could stay with me during the weeks and not live in poverty–" 

"It takes an Audi and a manor in Oxford to not live in poverty?"

"If your last name is Pendragon, yes," Merlin jokes, pleased with how easy his laugh follows. It's busy for a Friday, packed and loud and unruly in a way that swallows his laugh, amplifies it and then spits it back out for the world to hear. "Oliver has _everything_. We wouldn't have known what to do with ourselves if we'd had half as much."

Gwaine laughs, unreserved, in agreement. It was always the comforting thing about Gwaine, their similarities. Single mums, poor starts and more energy than either knew what to do with. They bonded over pints that neither could really afford at the pub down the street from Merlin's mum's flat and the fact that they couldn't take their eyes off of one another. Gwaine had been funny, easy going and completely pissed when they'd left but there'd been something about the way he looked at Merlin that made his heart race, his fingers itch to wrap deep in his hair and his mind focus on nothing but Gwaine's cocky smile for the next week and a half when their schedules were too busy for more than quick texts and re-arranged plans. Now, years later, it still feels much the same. There is a layer over Merlin's heart, thick and heavy, that holds down some of the easiness he used to feel but, beneath it, Merlin likes this renewed feeling of youth, of starting again. 

"Do you think you'll get back together?" Gwaine asks, leaning back and throwing his feet up on the chair diagonal from him, stretched and calm as Merlin shakes his head saying, "Arthur and I? No. Once his mind is decided, there's no going back."

He pointedly doesn't mention that his mind still isn't made up, that part of him is still trying to convince the rest of him that Arthur might change his mind one day, might want him back.

Gwaine nods. He presses his pint to his lips and says, "Good. Wanted to make sure I wasn't doing something stupid if I kissed you on your stoop tonight." After, he smiles, self-assured and gives Merlin a warm wink. 

Merlin let's him kiss him later. He allows Gwaine's fingers to brush the fringe from his forehead and stroke his cheeks with his thumb, warm and slightly tender. He closes his eyes, presses back and decides that it's time to try and move on, hope for Arthur's return be damned.

_-a._

Unimpressed does not begin to describe the way Arthur feels when Gwaine opens the door, no cheery Merlin standing behind him and welcoming him in or Oliver peeking around Gwaine's legs with impossibly happy eyes and open arms. 

"The train was late," Gwaine says, motioning Arthur in as though he owns the place after only really being around for three months or so. "Or Merlin's mum hugged them for an hour longer than she needed to."

Arthur almost – _almost_ – cracks a smile. "Likely the hug."

"Likely."

He hasn't spent a lot of time with Gwaine; most of what he knows has come from Oliver's stories – he swims, never listens to Daddy's – Christ, _Merlin's_ – directions and has been known to throw popcorn at Oliver during the 'sadderist' part of Finding Nemo. The longest amount of time Arthur has spent with Gwaine has been the ten minutes it takes Merlin to say goodbye on Fridays, his fingers clenched tight at the back of Oliver's shirt while he repeats 'I'll miss you', 'be good for papa, yeah?' and a joking: 'it's Sunday, right? You're back already?' 

He's been here enough times, remembers the layout from the initial tours with the estate agent that when Gwaine says, "go on to the living room, I'll grab us a beer" he knows which entry is the correct one. 

The sofa in the living room is soft and familiar, one he chose himself before Merlin moved in. He accepts the bottle Gwaine offers a moment later when he falls into the cushions on the other side. 

The telly is playing the highlights of the Manchester United match against Swansea. Rooney makes a goal, the stands erupt and Arthur looks away, not impressed in the slightest. He nurses his bottle and looks at portraits on the wall, thick black frames around Oliver's new born pictures and their family portrait taken just before his first birthday. There are even a few with Arthur. He can't deny that seeing his face on the wall makes him feel a little less like a tosser for still having pictures of Merlin and Oliver all over his flat. 

He's about to mention it, looks at Gwaine and begins to speak... 

Then he _realises_.

Gwaine is in _Merlin's_ house, sitting comfortably over _Merlin's_ sofa and drinking a beer Arthur knows _Merlin_ didn't buy. All of this while Merlin is _gone_ , has been gone for the last four days. Gwaine is wearing sleep bottoms, the kind Merlin used to buy for Arthur to sleep in at Christmas only to "borrow" them for himself all the time. His shirt is purple, wrinkled, worn – not meant to appear in public. 

All in all, he looks perfectly comfortable watching football on the telly in Merlin's house (things Arthur bought for Merlin and Oliver's use, not Merlin's ex-new-boyfriend's use).

And, well, Arthur won't lie, that's a problem.

"Where was it you live again?"

"London," Gwaine replies, still staring at the telly. Rooney's goal is playing again, with commentary this time. "Haven't had my car repaired from the accident though, my insurance doesn't move quite as fast as yours does, and Merlin forgot to leave his spare keys for me when he left. Haven't made it back for a couple days. Merlin doesn't mind; I pretty much live here as it is."

Swimming with Arthur's son, driving a car he destroyed and Arthur paid to replace, likely fucking Arthur's ex (which is the least of his worries, he _swears_ ) on a regular basis _and_ practically _moved in_. 

Gwaine goes from a decent enough bloke to a contender for the first spot on Arthur's shit list in less than twenty minutes.

He goes to speak, to voice his (blatant, unrivalled) disapproval but is stopped short by the sound of the lock clicking, Merlin's breathless, "I'm so, _so_ sorry we're late. My mum cried buckets when we tried to leave and then Oliver cried–"

Oliver, petulant, shouts, "I did not _cry_!"

"–and the train left on time for the first time in bloody fucking – Oh, sorry – _forever_."

He looks hurried, hair reminiscent of a bird's nest and arms bogged down with luggage that Gwaine doesn't even bother to try to help carry in. Arthur stands, reaches for the larger ones and nods when Merlin mumbles, "yeah, thanks; packed for weeks instead of days, I think" and half carries half drags the ones left in his hands toward the stairs. "Stay down here, okay? Papa is going to help me and then we'll get you ready to go," he tells Oliver, smiling tiredly. 

Though there is much pouting and a bit of a stomp that is cut short by the brief glance Arthur gives him, Oliver trudges toward the living room and leaves them to their work.

"He's overtired," Merlin explains. He shrugs, offers Arthur a pitying look. "He didn't sleep very well last night or the night before. My mum fed him ice cream at all hours of the day; spoiled him rotten." He motions at the door on the right when he make it to the top of the stairs and shoulders it open, dropping the bags in his hand unceremoniously on the floor with a great sigh. 

"Sounds like your mum." Following behind with a bit more care, Arthur sets the luggage in his hands against the wall in a relatively neat line. He takes his time though, pretends to be careful of ruining anything so that he has more time to take in the messy state of Merlin's bed, sheets a chaotic mess over the side and the floor. The walls are pale blue, navy trim matching his curtains and the over-stuffed decorative pillows thrown in the far corner near the dressing room door. There are books on the bedside table at the right, just the way Merlin kept them when he and Arthur lived with one another. The other table is littered with football magazines and some sort of hand-held gaming system that Arthur has seen in sale ads. 

Clearly not Merlin's.

"Gwaine says he lives here now."

Merlin gives a dry laugh, a short breathy noise. "Gwaine doesn't _live_ here, Gwaine had no way home this week."

Merlin is most likely lying. His bedroom is giving away more of the truth then he is providing. There are bright blue boxers on the floor, nothing like the neutral-coloured boxer-briefs Merlin favours and the jeans discarded over the reading chair by the window are in good condition (impossible for Merlin who keeps his clothes until they're practically shreds) and not nearly long enough to be Merlin's. "The train from Oxford to London was down all week then? He has no friends to ring for a ride?"

The look he receives is sharp, disapproving. "What is your problem, Arthur? Stop tiptoeing about it. Say whatever it is you're hinting at."

"I don't like the idea of you just leaving him in the house like that. He could have stolen something–"

"He's not some homeless bloke I met on the street, Arthur. You act like we didn't know each other for years before met again."

"– and Oliver says you've been leaving him with Gwaine unsupervised. You don't know what he's _doing_ –"

"Are you suggesting that Gwaine would want to do something... _sexual_ to Oliver?" 

That hadn't been what Arthur was implying, not even close, but the thought makes him freeze. It is something to be considered, isn't it? He sees stories in the news everyday about new cases like that, hears about a friend of a friend who had something similar happen to their child... 

He can't fathom that for Oliver away from home, much less under a roof and between walls that are meant to keep him safe but Gwaine isn't the type. Arthur is no fool; it's Merlin he's after. Oliver is likely just an added problem to be dealt with on the way to securing Merlin completely.

Merlin continues, "Christ, Arthur, he's not like _that_. When Oliver doesn't want to go to the grocers with me I leave him here with Gwaine because it's easier than making him come along kicking and screaming." Merlin looks disbelieving, unamused. His fingers clench into fists at his sides, his eyes darkening dangerously. "He's not into _little boys_ , Arthur."

"No, he's into skinny blokes with big ears and issues with not being the centre of attention all the time; the kind that ask for too much at once never stop to see that it's _not as easy as it sounds_ , that steps are sometimes the best thing someone can offer them," Arthur bites. "The kind that move the fuck on without thinking about the fact that there's more than just themselves to think about, that there's perhaps a little boy who will eventually ask why some strange bloke is sleeping in his dad's bedroom because, let's stop the bullshit act Merlin, this shit isn't all _yours_." He gestures at the jeans, the boxers and the little gaming system. Merlin's unmade bed, a sure sign that he wasn't the last one to sleep in it because Merlin hated making the bed and was always sure to do it first thing so that he didn't have to sully his day with it later. 

He shouldn't have said it. Merlin's face goes from angry to hurt in less than a second and he looks away, shaking his head while his teeth grip his bottom lip. He's always had a terrible habit of doing that when he's unsure of himself, of what to say. It gives him something to do until he's ready to speak. 

This time, though, Arthur isn't sure there's much Merlin can say. There isn't much he has left to argue with. He half sits, half falls at the edge of his bed and presses his palms to his face, hiding his eyes with long fingers that move upward, into his hair before they tug. "Arthur, it's not –"

"I'm going to go. I – We'll talk, maybe, about this on Sunday when you pick him up."

Oliver sleeps the entire ride to London. The radio stays silent, power turned off the second Arthur sits in the driver's seat and moves away. Soft snores fill the quiet, give him more than enough noise to keep him from going mad on the drive home. He doesn't think he could have handled the songs on the radio or Oliver's childish babble; he's too caught up with the idea that Merlin is talking to Gwaine right about now, telling him everything Arthur said and likely looking to him for solace.

The truth is he's not sure how to handle the fact that he's been replaced in all areas of Merlin's life now. Gwaine isn't just around to be the good mate, the comforting shoulder to lean on when Merlin is lonely on the weekends. There is a new man sleeping in Merlin's bed, leaving his dirty laundry over Merlin's floor and wrapping his arm around Merlin's shoulder, telling him things are going to be fine and whoever hurt his feelings is a tosser, hardly worth his time.

Arthur remembers doing those things, being that person in Merlin's life.

He's that tosser now, hardly worth Merlin's time, and he didn't think it'd bother him half as much as it does. 

Eighteen months is more than enough time to get used to the idea of Merlin belonging to someone else, being gone. And yet, it seems too soon. Far too soon. 

: : :

"It was a perfect plan. A perfect, seamless, bloody well _functioning_ plan until he showed up!" 

"Don't let it bother you, Arthur. He's Merlin's new boyfriend; it's his job to dirty up the bed and leave his boxers on the floor, isn't it?"

It's been a week and Arthur hasn't stopped mulling over him and Merlin's argument. Before Gwaine, things had worked – been simple and effective. They hadn't argued in months, hadn't pushed each other to a point where bickering was even remotely necessary.

Now, with Gwaine around every time Arthur rings to say goodnight or on Sundays when they Merlin comes to pick up Oliver from Arthur's flat, things are slowly becoming more complicated. He is, single-handedly, ruining everything Arthur worked for since he and Merlin's separation. 

The glass Leon slides toward him is filled with water. Ice cubes bounce over and under the surface before they settle. He takes a drink, swallows deep and continuous, as Leon says, "You weren't this worried over Merlin before; why is he suddenly such an issue? You were different after but... If anything, you've been _less_ stressed since you broke up. Where is this coming from?"

Arthur shifts a little in his chair, looks away. "Oliver, mostly."

"Oliver? What about him?" Leon raises a brow.

"Merlin broke up with him because he was a little more in love with drinking than Merlin, yeah?" This is true. Merlin's exact words had been, 'Gwaine was a good bloke, nice as they come, but he was a little more in love with his mates at the pub than he was with me...' and, now that Arthur thinks about it, it's the only thing that really makes sense. He hadn't missed Merlin before Gwaine, hadn't thought twice about asking him back... but he hates the way Oliver babbles on about _Wayne_ (Arthur won't lie, he thinks that bit is rather cute) taking him swimming and how _Wayne_ makes pasta, splashes the red sauce all over his daddy's shirts and tells them they should all just eat dinner shirtless because they _can_. 

Arthur takes another sip of his water, continues, "I just don't want Oliver getting attached to someone who is going to be gone in a month is all. If he wasn't worth Merlin's time the first go, why should I assume he will be this time around? And how do I know I can trust him around my son? Merlin trusts everyone; he'd think a man dressed in Armani with a sign that says 'homeless, please help' was being honest."

"First: If he's wearing Armani, that doesn't necessarily mean he's not homeless. Maybe he just spent his money on the wrong thing." Arthur snorts, half-smiles and Leon looks proud. "Second: People change."

That's not true. Arthur shrugs anyway. He and Leon have very different opinions about the human ability for _good_. Leon entered politics to make the world a better place, Arthur was forced in to make his family's name as much money as it could before he died and left someone else to swindle the populace (he'll never admit it aloud, don't bother to ask).

Naturally, they don't often agree about things like _change_ and _betterment_ but it's an argument they've already had a dozen times before. No need to have it again.

Leon reaches behind him, pulls his wallet from his pocket. He sets his credit card next to the slightly damp cheque and pushes Arthur away when he reaches to set his own beside it. "Keep it, I'll pay. But, really, Oliver is Merlin's world. You don't honestly think he'd let Gwaine get this close if he didn't think it was going to work, do you?"

It's working, isn't it? For Merlin and Gwaine. They're making family dinners with Oliver, taking him to the park and teaching him to ride a bike. All the things Arthur never has time for, Merlin and Gwaine accomplish with ease.

When Leon leans forward a moment later, stares at him very seriously and asks, "This is about Oliver, yeah? You're not changing your mind about Merlin, are you?" Arthur has to look away as he shrugs, knowing all too well that Leon will call bullshit if he looks him in the eye and says, "Of course it's about Oliver. Why else would I care who _Merlin_ dates?" 

_-m._

Uther looks uncomfortable, bordering on sickly as he steps back to avoid a running toddler covered in mud. It's a small moment of triumph for Merlin who looks away to fight back his smile and continues pressing candles into the pirate cake before him. The sun is over-bright, nearly blinding and, as he attempts to shade his eyes, he's a little thrown off by his glasses, shocked all over again by the fact that he's wearing them. They're not so bad, he supposes. Black-framed and square, he'd cracked a joke with Arthur the night before when they'd gone to retrieve Oliver's gift that he felt twice as smart in them, more sexy when he winked at himself in the mirror. 

He'd liked when Arthur agreed. It wasn't something he wanted to think too much about, though. Gwaine had agreed too and that had suited him just fine – more so, even, he swears.

The party has been in full-swing for the last twenty minutes and Merlin has yet to see or hear Arthur, unintentionally peeking up from his tasks every moment or so in hopes of finding him standing close. 

It's at the edge of the pool that Merlin finds him five minutes later. Oliver squeals, loud and clear over the rest of the party noise and parental instincts still Merlin's hands, force his eyes to the last place he saw his son and is relieved to see him perfectly safe. Arthur is down on his hunches, Oliver between his knees beaming brighter than the hot August sun overhead. 

They're picturesque; Merlin's heart stills and he is amazed yet again by the infinite amount of luck he was blessed with to end up here. 

Perhaps not infinite. There is a girl at Arthur's side – a pretty one with light brown hair plaited neatly down her back who's wearing a dress that looks as though she might have torn it straight from a magazine. She's not too sophisticated to kneel to meet Oliver's eyes, her hand reaching to clasp his. They shake, she gestures toward the pool and all three laugh openly, delightedly.

Merlin looks away. He even goes as far as to pretend he didn't notice Arthur was late when he joins him a few minutes later, already shirtless and dripping water over the table for food and drinks. His swim shorts are white, three solid lines of varying shades of blue trailing diagonally across the left side and Merlin notices that they're obviously new. Last week when he'd gone swimming with Oliver for an hour before they'd headed to London he'd been wearing red shorts, faded from the summer previous.

And isn't it uncanny that his guest's bikini is practically the same design and colour down to the Billabong logo across her (perfectly pert) bum?

"Mithian wanted to tag along," Arthur says. Merlin, caught staring as Mithian helps Oliver crawl into his pool raft, doesn't bother to pretend he wasn't looking. "She thought it might make it easier to meet him at something like this, rather than somewhere less entertaining, should he decide he doesn't like her."

"She wanted to meet you too," he adds a moment later, a little more quietly, "because it's only fair that you know who is going to be spending time around your child, see how they behave in public–"

"Even if Gwaine had introduced himself to you, invited you to his flat for dinner and served you enough fine wine to give you a year-long hangover, you still wouldn't have liked him. You met him with the intention of hating him."

"He – _hit – your – car._ "

"It was an accident; he apologised."

Arthur scoffs. "An accident that earned him a pseudo-son, a manor in Oxford and a spare set of keys to the same Audi he destroyed the first time around."

"Fuck off if you're going to be a prick," warns Merlin. He smiles falsely, nods when the neighbours stick their heads around the corner and ask if it's okay that their son joins in on the party. "It's his birthday and I'm not going to argue with you here. Go find your father a chair, he looks like he's ready to faint in that suit; it's a four-year-old's pool party in _August_ for Christ's sake, not lunch at Chez Bruce." 

The song blasting from his iPod changes. Katy Perry's voice floods the yard, clear over the splashing water and the giggling toddler's bouncing about. Gwen shifts her hips from side to side, taking slow steps toward the table as though she's not quite sure she wants to be so close to them. The desire for food wins out and she stabs a piece of pineapple with her fork and says, "This is great, Merlin; you did an amazing job."

Katy is telling the guests that there is a part of her that they'll never (fuck – was this song really necessary?) going to take away from her while Merlin says, "Thanks, Gwen; glad you came."

When she walks away, he dares a glance at Arthur from the corner of his eye. "So, you and Mithian are...?"

"Not a couple. Not yet. Maybe not at all. But, as of right now, I'm not sure I'm ready to introduce another person to Oliver's life with the idea of keeping them around for a long period of time unless I'm sure they'll be good with him – good _for_ him."

Merlin nods. Arthur has always been a great planner, seeing the long-term when the situation calls for it. He wonders if Arthur ever saw this? Them, no longer together but settled next to one another at their son's birthday party, watching him jump daringly from the edge into the water below and rise quickly, laughing with everything he has. 

As for Merlin, he never anticipated this. He imagined a future where he was able to watch the pool water drip down Arthur's chest, gather in the trail of golden hair from his belly down and smile teasingly, winking when Arthur notices and being free to ogle a little longer – take in the swim shorts settled low over his hips and his hair, messy and damp, over his forehead.

"I'm going to see if I don't have an extra pair of swim shorts for my father in the car," Arthur starts, nodding toward the front of the house, "then we'll cut cake and do gifts, yeah?"

"Sure. Arthur?"

He stops, half turns. Merlin says, "Just in case I forget..."

There's a quiet second, a flash of confusion on Arthur's face.

"Tell Freya I said 'thank you' when you get home tonight?" Merlin finishes slowly. Oliver yells for everyone to watch him jump and runs toward the water, stopping just on the edge in time to leap softly into pool. Everyone claps regardless, cheers when he comes up and throws his fist in the air. "I know it's silly, but I want her to know we didn't forget her – that it’s not just his birthday."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Of course."

Uther refuses to wear Arthur's extra swim shorts, refuses cake but half smiles when Arthur and Mithian settle in the chairs next to his. Oliver spends most of the rest of the party in Arthur's lap, sneaking bites from Mithian's untouched plate. He's instantly smitten with her, asks her a dozen times when she'll come swim with him again and all it takes is thirty minutes in the pool and half a piece of cake.

Arthur texts him that night, says: _Do you approve?_

Merlin takes a twenty minute shower, watches two episodes of Doctor Who and eats an entire bag of crisps. Then he replies, _Yeah, I suppose I do_ while he tries to convince himself that it's true. 

_-a._

"Pirates?"

"Mmmmhm," Oliver replies, face stern. He points the stick stolen from Merlin's yard at Arthur, pokes him in the stomach and yells, "Walk the plank!"

"Oh, absolutely not."

"Papa!"

"Arthur," says Mithian slowly, nodding toward Oliver's pout as she tugs the stick away patiently, "he is a little too old for his bedroom, don't you agree?"

Frankly, no, and he doesn't appreciate her butting her head in where it doesn't belong. Merlin, he and Freya designed that room. It's still perfect, just the way it was the day they considered themselves done and laid out in the middle of the floor, listening to the Thames and the busy street through the open window, trying and failing to imagine a _baby_ in the crib against the wall. 

The crib is gone now, replaced with a toddler bed but it's, for the most part, unchanged from that day. 

He considers trying to explain _why_ , how important it is but decides against it when Oliver says, "'Waine is painting my room with pirates at daddy's house; he said you'd never let me have it at your house."

"Pirates it is, then," Arthur announces breezily. Fuck it. He's not using the guest bedroom anyway. Mithian glances as him with a hint of a smile, a smugness in her lips that he ignores. He points at Oliver, drawing up his serious expression and adds, "But you'll have to take the guest room. Your papa really likes the way your room is now. It's special, so it's going to stay the way it is."

"Alright." Oliver doesn't care, doesn't protest. He nods eagerly, willing to accept whatever stipulations Arthur puts on his room so long as he gets his pirates and his stick back but Mithian keeps control of that, poking Arthur twice with it before she leaves for home.

Two weeks (and a dozen stolen pictures of Gwaine's pirate room for reference) later, Arthur wipes the sweat from his brow and declares it done. Mithian flicks blue paint from her brush at him, laughs when it splatters over his arm and earns her an affronted look. She says, "You've succeeded in making Gwaine's pirate room look pitiful; you should be proud."

"That wasn't the intention." Except it was. "You were right, though. He was too old for his nursery."

He must sound forlorn, disappointed, because Mithian drops her brush to the tarp-covered floor and rubs her fingers over his shoulders, down his back before she tucks her chin over his shoulder and says, "It was important to you for more than the aesthetics; he might have been angry but he would have understood eventually."

Mithian is kind – the type of woman Arthur was meant to marry, to have children with. She says all the right things, knows the way he's feeling before he knows it himself and, maybe if he'd done things differently, not fed into the need to ask Merlin out for coffee properly that day in the bookstore, he might have fallen in love with her instead.

Her mobile clicks, screen making a shutter motion as she takes a picture and announces that she's going to upload it to Facebook. All of her friends will love it, she says, bumping Arthur lightly with her hip when she turns to leave. "Let's go get dinner. Roka sounds _really_ good right now."

To be fair Roka isn't bad. Not his first choice but it's a weekday, a bit on the slow side and their waitress has her job down to a fine art – keep the glasses full, only appear when truly needed and make sure all conversation is prompt and minimal. He tips her well. 

Merlin is the one who ruins it. Even an hour away, he successfully destroys all hopes of fine dining without some sort of accident or argument. 

"That was a shit move, Arthur. I'd expect this if I'd dumped you but seeing as I'm the one who was dumped, I must say that you're going over-board."

"Evening, Merlin, nice to hear from you." Arthur mouths 'just one minute' and adds an eye roll as he stands, and grabs his coat. He slips it over his shoulders, struggling to adjust his mobile as he moves toward the door. 

"Don't play coy, Pendragon; I'm on to you."

It's unusually cold for October, warrants a scarf Arthur didn't think to bring and gloves he has yet to buy. He tucks his mobile between his ear and shoulder, leans back against the front wall of Roka and shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets. In the background he can hear Oliver shouting, demanding Merlin tell him how much he loves his room – how it's ' _so cool!_ ' "Tell him I haven't got round to hanging up the nets yet. He'll love those."

Merlin tells Oliver to get in bed, he's already up later than he should be and when the annoyed 'whatever, daddy' fades, Merlin says, "I'm not telling him anything, Arthur. Why couldn't you come up with your _own_ idea?"

"He asked for pirates –"

"You knew Gwaine was working on that room; you took _pictures_!"

Annoyed, Arthur replies, "Yes, and I made it _better_ – the _best_."

Gwaine is talking, voice nearly inaudible through the speaker. Between the grainy quality of the sound and the chattering teenagers passing on the street, Arthur only catches the bit where he tells Merlin that it's not worth it, that Arthur is going to do what Arthur wants to do and he's going to bed, he'll see Merlin when he comes up.

Isn't that cosy?

Merlin mumbles, "Yeah, okay. I'll be there in a minute." To Arthur, he says, "I've had enough this time. This great scheme to one-up Gwaine is out of line and it isn't your first."

"What else have I done?"

"What else?" Merlin sounds ridiculously amused. "You cancelled the cake order and ordered your own cake – one twice the size as the one Gwaine and I ordered. Gwaine took him to a football game; you introduced him to the team. They're trying to bond and you're making it impossible by shoving how much more you have to offer in his face! Have you stopped to think that money isn't everything? Maybe he needs someone who has _time_ for him?"

"Merlin, he's a bad influence; they don't need to _bond_ and the less time he spends around Gwaine, the better. I didn't agree to share custody with _him_ ; I agreed to share custody with _you_. He has someone to take him to football games and order his birthday cakes. I don't need _Gwaine's_ help being a father." 

Seething, Merlin asks, "How is Gwaine a bad influence?"

"He pisses with the door open–" Arthur learned that bit the hard way "– let's Oliver swim unsupervised–" Oliver is the worst secret-keeper Arthur has ever met. Did Gwaine really think he'd get away with that? "–and he's practically unemployed."

"He works from _home_!"

" _Your_ home, which is basically the same thing." He's still relatively calm, a little keyed up but not enough to reach the point of yelling yet. Half turning, he sees Mithian through the window, a small smile playing on her lips while she waits for him. Their dessert is set between her seat and his, untouched through an act of divine intervention or newly acquired patience. Arthur has known Mithian on and off for years, has been semi-dating (it's not quite to a point where he's comfortable with letting her stay over or even sex and she seems to understand) for nearly two months and never once has she let dessert survive this long. "Look, Merlin, I'm celebrating my accomplishment with Mithian and –"

Merlin's gasp is quiet, barely-there. He says, "Right, well, sorry to interrupt your date."

Arthur replies, "I still don't understand why you rang in the first place. Oliver wanted a pirate room, I gave him one. As his father, I'm allowed to do that; I don't need your or Gwaine's permission."

"I never said you needed my permission, much less Gwaine's. You're acting like I'm trying to replace you –"

"You are," he insists firmly. Arthur takes a deep breath, says, "You've been replacing me ever since that damn accident. It was fine before then – bloody fucking _perfect_."

"Gwaine can't replace you; you're always going to be Oliver's–"

He's not sure why he says it – not sure where it comes from. Mithian's eyes meet his, bright and warm through the window and Arthur pulls his hand free from his pocket to wave. After, he moves to hold his mobile to his ear, takes and breath and blurts, "What if it isn't about Oliver? What if I don't want to be replaced to either of you? What then, Merlin? Is he still not replacing me? Are _you_ still not replacing me?"

Merlin is silent. His breath is slow, steady. Arthur can practically see him chewing his lip running his free hand through his hair and making it even more of a disaster as it already was. His curls have never behaved, never settled for anything less than a mess. Arthur always found it endearing, sweet in a way that made Merlin look younger, brighter. Being near him, close to him, gave Arthur the idea that they had years left, millions or billions of them if Merlin allowed it because he was that pure – that young at heart. 

"Arthur, are you–"

"I have to go." Mithian is beginning to look concerned. She half-stands, moves to leave and doesn't sit until he motions that it'll be just a second longer. He mouths 'stay', waves his hand to signal her to go back. "Tell Oliver goodnight for me. I'll be round on Friday."

"Of course – Yeah – I mean, sure."

Arthur hangs up before Merlin can say anything else. It was stupid to mention it in the first place. He doesn't want to hear the answer anyway. 

: : :

"My grandson will be following in Arthur's footsteps, of course. He's already taken to football," Uther explains to the others around the table, his voice deep with satisfaction, "and fine art."

Finger-painting counts as fine art? Internally Arthur shrugs. He's been to enough museums to know that flat black canvases are 'fine art' these days, worth more than he'd ever consider paying for them. In his pocket his mobile vibrates again, reminding him silently that there is a text waiting for his attention. He sips his wine, listens to Mr. Grimstead start a story about his grandaughter's most recent dance recital and avoids his mobile entirely.

Surrounded by members of Parliament who he will eventually replace, will require their support to reach that point, he is not about to retrieve his mobile to answer a text. Lunch hasn't even arrived to the table yet and everyone who is anyone to him knows that he's here, sitting between his father and John Stockley who will be his most beneficial supporter. Second, of course, to his name which holds promise enough with voters all on its own.

This luncheon is imperative for his future, for his career. He's spent years making his face known and taking on all of the taxing work to make his dedication clear. This was what he was groomed for, born to become and when Stockley leans in, whispers, "Grimstead will be gone soon enough. Are you prepared to take his spot or should we voice our opinions toward someone else?" Arthur knows that this – this moment, _right now_ – is what he's woken up every day for the past thirty-four years for.

It vibrates again, longer this time – another new text. 

"Excuse me," he says, standing. He nods to Stockley, informing him that he heard the offer and will be back in a moment to discuss it. As soon as he's done reaming whoever won't stop bloody texting him. "I need a quick word with the waiter about my order."

Because he's not leaving the most important moment of his career to answer his _mobile_. No, not doing it.

Uther nods, dismissing him with a wave while the others continue to listen (or pretend to) to Grimstead's tale, already longer than any story about little girls dancing should be. It's no wonder he's going to be gone before the next election.

_I know you're busy, sorry to interrupt. Oliver fell. Gwaine has him at A &E. They think it might be a broken arm. On my way now. Wanted to let you know. Good luck with Stockley!_

The second says: _Broken as they come. Hope it's going well!_

Merlin answers on the second ring, slightly breathless when he says, "Arthur? Where are you?"

"J. Sheekey. Where are you?"

"On the train, trying to get to Oxford. It's never bloody on time and –"

"The train from _where_? You mean to tell me he's with Gwaine _alone_ at A &E with a broken arm?"

"Devon. It wasn't a planned trip–"

"How far are you?" Arthur asks, pushing up the sleeve of his jacket to look at his watch. Just past two. Traffic won't be too terrible if he leaves now. "How far, Merlin?"

"It just left but he's fine, they've got him in a sling and all the nurses know him–"

"That's not the _point_ , Merlin!" Sod it all. He shoulders open the door, ignoring the cheery hostess as she welcomes him back. When he nears the table, mobile still pressed to his ear and Merlin blabbering insistently that 'it's fine', 'he's fine' and 'aren't you supposed to be at that meeting?', he leans close to his father's ear and says, "Oliver is at A&E it's an emergency, I have to go."

Merlin says, "Arthur – _no_. It's a bone, it'll heal. _Stay_."

Uther raises a brow, looks prepared to argue. And then, from Arthur's left, Stockley breaks through Grimstead's story with a warm, "Well go on, Arthur – family first. I think we can finish the rest of the wine on our own."

"Arthur is truly a family man," interjects Uther, seeing the in for some sort of push. "Oliver, his son, is the centre of his life. He's even met a nice woman recently – one I'd like to see him marry. You lads might remember Gedref, he spent some time under Major--"

"Yes, yes," Stockley says. He waves Arthur away, tells him in passing to go ahead before he drags the others into the conversation, mentioning that he remembers Mithian as a little girl. 

"A perfect wife," Grimstead mentions as Arthur is walking away, "he'll be a lucky lad."

"I can't believe you're leaving," Merlin mumbles. He sounds part-mortified, part-amazed. "Just because he said you could doesn't mean you _should_."

Arthur, frustrated as he struggles to free his keys from his pocket, replies, "He could have bloody well told me to stay or be unemployed and I would have left. It's a _job_ , Merlin – replaceable. Oliver isn't."

"It's just... I didn't think you'd–" Merlin stops, takes a deep breath. The train is quiet in the background, the soft buzz of noiselessness filling Arthur's ear as he slips into the driver's seat and presses the start button, putting his car into gear before the radio has even had a chance to register that it's been started. "Thank you, Arthur."

"Don't thank me," he says slowly, pointedly. "You'll want to take it back the moment I see you. Leaving him with Gwaine? Being four bloody hours away when he could have needed you? I'm not happy, Merlin. Not happy at all." 

_-m._

Merlin feels like a shoddy parent. Mithian is in the waiting room, legs crossed and hair plaited neatly over her shoulder. There is a book in her hands – Pride and Prejudice, well loved – and she looks up when the automatic doors ease open, too slow for Merlin's liking. "He's fine," she tells him, "Arthur is with him. They're picking cast colours now, I think."

"Red."

She nods, looks toward the door. "Most likely, yes. He was chattering about how much he'd always wanted one when I arrived – not the least bit disturbed. Hardly cried a tear."

"If I could," she starts when he moves toward the door, fingers light around his wrist, "before you go... I wanted to talk – without Arthur."

And really, all that's waiting for him is death anyway so, why not? Merlin sits, watches Mithian's hands twist the peeking bit of her cloth bookmark and release it, repeating the motion a moment later. "I've always felt something more than friendship for Arthur. He was my knight as a little girl – bold, brave. Our fathers said we were a perfect match."

There is a feeling Merlin recognises as jealousy bubbling in his chest, making his fingers clench. His feet tap out of sync, restless as he looks down toward his lap. There is a loose thread in his sweatshirt. He really should just buy a new one. "He's kind of hard to ignore that way."

"He is," she agrees with a smile. "We haven't talked regularly for a while, since before he met you, but since we bumped into each other it's been... working."

"Slowly," she adds, quick to make it known. "He's not ready for what Uther is pushing for – marriage, more children – but I want to know that, should it come to that, you approve of me – of Arthur and I's relationship."

And Merlin should, shouldn't he? Oliver loves Mithian. She's become someone like Gwaine to him, a friend – a trustee. And Merlin trusts Mithian, doesn't think she's capable of hurting Oliver and that makes her a decent sort, someone worth accepting. 

At the same time, Merlin fights the instantaneous urge to say, "No, I don't approve, thanks ever so" because he can't stop thinking about the night nearly a month ago when Arthur said he didn't want Merlin to replace him in his life. He had gone to bed that night, tossing and turning and replaying what that could mean until his eyes were bloodshot and Oliver was begging for breakfast. 

What had it meant? Was Arthur jealous or realising that their break-up was a mistake? Would his feelings pass with time or should Merlin wait them out, hope that Arthur decided to try again?

More than that, would Merlin want to try again? Was it worth all he'd experienced before for it all to fail again? There would be no Freya to glue them back together when they argued, someone there to hear their bickering when Arthur came home late without ringing or when Merlin decided to take a shift at the hospital without warning. Could they hurt Oliver – emotionally, not physically – by trying and failing? Was it fair to get his hopes up, make him think that they might work?

And what about Gwaine? Mithian? Could they leave them? _Would_ they?

"You don't approve." It's a statement, not a question. She looks worried, disappointed.

"I... I don't know," he answers. It's honest, as honest as he can be. He doesn't know.

And that's more scary then the the idea of trying again.

Mithian says, quiet, "I'll never be you – never replace you. I've accepted the fact that Arthur will likely love you forever, that'll I'll always be second-best. I'm not silly enough to think otherwise." Her eyes are blue, clear and friendly. They're a touch sad, just a shimmer of disappointment under the layers of cornflower. "But I am willing to accept a sliver of his and Oliver's hearts, the little bit that doesn't belong to you, if you're willing to let me have it – if _they're_ willing to let me have it."

He still doesn't know. 

: : :

"Daddy, rubbish goes in the _bin_." Oliver's voice is stern. He has an empty tin clutched in his hand, lips pursed as he shakes it in Merlin's direction. "You can't make a _mess_."

Sometimes he feels like he's the parent to a thirty year old and not a four year old. His voice, the perfect set of his jaw and messy blonde hair make him so much like Arthur. Merlin can't count the number of times after dinner when Arthur used to yell, "Are you going to come clean up your bloody mess? I'm not your fucking maid, _Mer_ lin!" He'd appear around the corner a moment later, face set much like Oliver's is the moment Merlin turns and says, "Sorry, mate – I forgot."

"Forgot?" Oliver asks. Arthur used to ask that, too – repeat back the word and stress it, shaking whatever rubbish he'd collected from the worktop – an empty tin of tomatoes in one hand or a used cheese grater, clumps of mozzarella still hanging loosely around the edges – before giving Merlin a half smile.

It was a somewhat hopeless smile, amused in a way that made Merlin smile right back. 

Oliver is opposite in that regard. He doesn't smile or give Merlin that look that says he's hopelessly in love, unable to do anything more than roll his eyes before going off to wipe the worktop with a rag or recycle the empty tins. Instead he shifts his weight to his left hip, arm angled awkwardly in his red cast. He grunts, "You're lucky to have me, daddy" as he attempts to gather Merlin's mess by standing on his tip-toes, struggling to reach a bowl toward the back of the worktop and a discarded box of noodles. 

Merlin laughs, says, "Yes, very lucky."

"Everyone is lucky to have me," continues Oliver proudly. He stretches his fingers, bowl just out of reach and glares when Merlin nudges it forward slightly to put it in his range. "I could have done it," he mumbles, perturbed, before adding, "You're lucky, papa is lucky, Gwaine is lucky, Mithann is lucky..."

The way he cocks his head to the side and shrugs is adorable and Merlin can't help but laugh. "You're lucky to have us too, you know? It goes both ways." 

The oven buzzes, reminds Merlin that dinner is done. He reaches for the handle, moving to open it but pauses when Oliver mumbles, "Not really."

"What do you mean?"

The pan is hot. Merlin sets it on the worktop to cool, letting it slide away from his dishcloth covered hands before he leans forward to sniff. It's the perfect blend of diced tomatoes, garlic and oregano. The warmth rises steadily, teases his senses as he takes another deep breath.

Oliver reaches to stab dinner with his fork, dares to look affronted when Merlin swats his hand away. However, no Oliver tantrum is without a ' _hmph_!' and a little stomp.

"What do you mean?" Merlin questions again, wiggling his fingers at the spatula near Oliver's side of the worktop. He mumbles 'thank you' when Oliver hands it to him, then swats him on the bum with it, smiling ruefully at the look of disbelief he receives in response. 

"I'm lucky for you and papa. Gwaine and Mithann are nice but they're not..." his pale brows draw together, little face scrunching up as he considers his words. Merlin stills. He lowers his knife and spatula before he reaches out to run his thumb over the wrinkled skin of Oliver's forehead. He eases it, presses gently until Oliver relaxes slightly and says, "I just really love you and papa. I like Gwaine and Mithann but... I wish we were all happy together."

"What if we're happy apart? Is that okay?" 

Merlin worries. He grew up without a father, without a second parent and he knows that there is a bit of a loss there. However, his mum has been his everything. She's been there for him at every turn - - through the thick and the thin – and he wants to be that for Oliver, be everything and more. Merlin knows Arthur wants the very same, to be the father every child dreams of having. 

And they're doing that, aren't they? Perhaps not in the way they originally planned but they're making it work, giving Oliver all that he needs... 

How must it look to someone so small, who sees the world so starkly – everything black or white, good or bad, full or empty? 

Oliver shrugs, looks away. "'s okay. I was just saying..." 

Merlin pulls a chair away from the table, pushes it close to the worktop. He nods, silently urging Oliver to stand on it and says, "Come up and help me finish this, won't you? I think it needs more cheese." 

" _Yum_." 

The smile is small, sweet. Merlin notices, though, that there isn't any of Oliver's usual delight behind it. His lips, pink and full, are only half-happy and that's not enough – not nearly enough. 

_-a._

_Awake?_

_i cn be_

_He won't sleep, says he needs you. We're leaving in five._

_txt whn youre clse. ill wait_

Merlin looks asleep on his feet. Arthur expected it from his half-coherent text messages; he also doesn't hold it against him. It's just after three in the morning and he knows Merlin drove from Devon just a few hours ago, making the trip all in one go so he could get it done with. Driving long distances has never been something Merlin enjoys, having been raised with a strict (or, well, _often late_ ) train schedule but never a car. He's used to letting someone else do the work; focus on the traffic around him. 

Arthur knows the feeling. The hour-long drive from London to Oxford was more than enough to take him from sleepy to dead on his feet and now, standing with Oliver in his arms and leaning into the door jamb for as much support as it's willing to offer, he can only imagine how Merlin must feel.

Oliver reaches out, mumbles, "daddy" and presses his face into the crook of Merlin's neck when they exchange him. "Come on in," he says, voice quiet, as he steps back to give Arthur room. One of his arms is cradling Oliver's bum while the other rubs smooth circles over the back of his coat, murmuring that they're going to go lie in his bed and get some sleep. "Do you feel sick?" he asks as he moves up the stairs, leaving Arthur to fend for himself downstairs.

Oliver's mumbles, "No, just missed you" before they round the corner, disappearing into his bedroom.

Merlin falls into the sofa beside Arthur thirty minutes later, limbs laid out in all directions and eyes focused on the ceiling. "We're not strict enough; he's too pampered. I don't know of any separated parents who drive an hour in the middle of the bloody night to let their children sleep in their other bed, like they're not the same thing."

Shrugging, Arthur says, "Mind if I kip here?" His head rolls to the side, relying on the back of the sofa to support his neck. Merlin's lips are full, rosy in the darkness and they're perpetually dangerous to Arthur's state of mind because right now, drowsy and unsure of what exactly he's doing because it feels right but something inside his head is screaming that it's wrong – so wrong.

Ignoring the warning, he summons all the strength his tired limbs will give him and leans forward, presses his lips to the corner of Merlin's mouth. The first kiss is slow, lingering – barely a brush but sensual in a way they've never had before, never made time for in the past. It's strange to think that there's more to be found when he kisses Merlin, that there was something else – another emotion, more perfect skin – to feel. 

The second kiss, Merlin's fault this time rather than Arthur's, is more confident – closer to what Arthur remembers but with a touch of extra passion, invoking a quicker beat to his heart. His fingers inch forward, hands pressing Merlin back against the arm of the couch so he can reach for more of the closeness he remembers.

Arthur doesn't think about the fact that the bed belongs to Merlin and _Gwaine_ when they fall into it, already stripped bare and anxious for more skin, more contact. His arm sweeps away the magazines on the night table and he pulls Merlin's glasses away from his face, places them as gingerly as his shaking hands can manage on the empty table. After, he lets his fingers trace familiar patterns over Merlin's chest, nipples taut by the time his lips find them – his tongue, his teeth. It's the same but different, his but not his and Arthur doesn't have to try to remember the soft spot at the juncture of Merlin's neck or the way his thighs quiver under Arthur's palms when his fingers trace the cleft of Merlin's arse, just barely touching the skin in the way that makes Merlin sigh quietly, breathlessly. 

It's not until the head of his cock is pressed against Merlin's hole, slicked prepared and inviting, just the way Arthur remembers it, when Merlin mumbles, "Condom, Arthur. Condom" that he stops, considers what they're doing and remembers why it's so wrong. 

"I haven't – I –"

Of course Merlin's been with someone else – been with _Gwaine_. Arthur knew that, he _did_. Arthur hadn't been Merlin's first, he knew that too, but now it seems different, more than just dirty because this – Merlin's flushed skin, lungs struggling but never finding enough air, hair in a disarray across pale blue sheets and heartbeat rapid in his chest, thundering under the hand Arthur can't stand to pull away – was meant to be his, no one else's.

And he hadn't wanted to see anyone else like this, giving themselves so completely to him. He mumbles, "I couldn't –" and Merlin fingers, having taken to stroking languidly over Arthur's cock when he'd paused at the mention of condoms, mumbles, "Oh. Arthur, you –" before he leans up, pushes himself up on his elbows and presses his lips solidly against Arthur's. 

Merlin breaths, "take me, take me" and "so, _so_ sorry". One hand reaches for Arthur's cock again while the other grips Arthur's hips, urging him forward. He lifts his hips, helps the angle and sighs, head falling back into the pillows when Arthur finally – _finally_ – presses inside. He gasps, "fuck" and "more" and "too long" while Arthur finds his rhythm, tilts his hips until Merlin's eyes shoot open, wide, bright and telling. Arthur breathes, "Found it" and surges forward again, too focused on Merlin's exposed neck to pay any mind to the scratches Merlin's nails are digging into his back, his shoulders. 

Merlin bites his hand when he comes, groans stolen by fingers and teeth. Arthur hisses Merlin's name, just like he always has, and hates the moment he realises that the want, the desire, hasn't disappeared with the arrival of his orgasm. It's still there, burning under his skin and twisting through his chest – demanding more, demanding everything all over again. 

He lays on his back and tries very hard to ignore Merlin when he turns to his side, props himself up on one elbow and traces his fingers over the line of his jaw, his lips. He asks, "Do you remember when Gwen said we had the fairy tale relationship? The kind of relationship all of our friends secretly hate us for?"

"This isn't how fairy tales usually go, Merlin. They're meant to end with the characters living happily ever after and... Well, how are we meant to get there after all of this?" 

Merlin stills, sighs quietly. If he was tired before, he's half-dead by now and all of this is nothing but pillow talk, fate's way of teasing Arthur with words that incite feelings like _hope_. 

Then Merlin moves again, grips Arthur's chin and forces their eyes to meet. His are endless and deep, unforgettable as he says, "We haven't reached the end of the story, Arthur. There's still time."

"What is this, then?" Arthur asks. "If this isn't the end, what is it?"

Arthur supposes he could call the gentle lift at the corner of Merlin's lift a smile but it's not like Merlin's usual one, not nearly as wide or unreserved. If anything, it is a bit unsure – a bit confused and confusing, much like Merlin himself. "It's the climax, I think," replies Merlin when his lips give another little tug, a touch wider than before. "I think we're meant to solve the conflict now, Arthur – decide where our story is going."

There's hope again, full and oppressive in his chest as Merlin pillows his head in Arthur's shoulder and asks drowsily, "How did we forget this? How did we let this go?" 

: : :

Merlin's break-up with Gwaine goes relatively easy. 

They don't argue; Gwaine doesn't scream at Arthur about how it's his fault. He bows out, packs his things and tells Arthur not to fuck up this time around on his way out. He seems positively delighted when Merlin speaks before Arthur, says, "We're not getting back together yet. I just... don't want to drag you along anymore; you're worth more than that to me."

Gwaine does struggle to explain to Oliver that he probably won't see him as often but that he'll still be around, still be his mate and Arthur keeps quiet then, too, almost disappointed in himself for being the reason Gwaine has to go, even if it was what Arthur had been struggling to achieve from the beginning.

And Merlin is good about not pushing Arthur to end the not-quite-relationship with Mithian. He says, "Uther wants you to marry her," late one night, close to Arthur's side on the sofa but not quite touching, not quite a couple. "It'd be a great move for your career – your future."

Arthur tells Merlin he's right, that's true and tries to scribble notes about all the different ways his life could end up if he stays marries Mithian, continues with the stilted version of a friendship he's sharing with Merlin for the rest of his life. He thinks about the way his life could go if he told Mithian the truth; broke things off and started with Merlin all over, without the weight of his career all over again. 

It's not easy to tell Mithian goodbye, to accept her hug and her accepting smile when he decides to take the hard route. There is nautical blue paint from Oliver's pirate room on her shirt, a reminder of what they shared when she tells him she understands; that she hopes with everything she has that they work out. "You're perfect for one another," she says, looking away, "I'd like to have that one day – that connection. You'd rather repair what's broken then throw it away, give up and make it anew and... I respect that, Arthur. I respect you both."

Uther is not so accepting. He stabs his steak with his fork, lets it go in an effort, Arthur thinks, to not stab someone (Arthur, mostly) instead. "I gave you the chance to do what you wanted, what you thought you could handle. You failed, Arthur, dismally, and now it's time to start behaving like an adult. Mister Stockley has spoken very highly of you since our luncheon; he is very supporting of your relationship with Mithian. Your career, Arthur, comes first."

His mobile buzzes in his pocket.

_They played Wild Ones on the radio today! I waited in the car park for five minutes to finish listening to it before I went about my day. Sad, aren't I? It reminded me of you. ;) See you tonight for dinner?_

His smile is involuntarily, happens entirely on its own. 

His father hisses, "Put that damn thing away while I'm speaking to you, Arthur. The election will be here before you know it and you will need support – support from members who aren't fond your _unnatural_ homosexual proclivities."

The decision is not instantaneous. It takes Arthur a whole thirty seconds while he stares at the picture of Merlin and Oliver on his mobile to decide that this is not where he wants to be, this is not what he wants to do. Politics in the sense that his father handles them are not what he dreamed of as a child. He's grown to like it over the years, feel comfortable enough with it to accept that this is the way his life will be in some way but that doesn't mean it has to be _his father's_ way.

And maybe he's a little brash when he says, "Fuck them, then. If they want a heterosexual bloke who's miserable in his relationship and gave up everything – and everyone – important to him to stand beside them, vote with them; then I'm not the bloke for them. My ' _unnatural homosexual proclivities_ ' make me happier than any of this shit, so you can go ahead and keep it."

"I've spent my entire life trying to be what you need me to be," Arthur continues, neck flushed and pulse racing. He's already thinking he's going to regret this, that this isn't the way things are meant to be handled. Pendragons don't make scenes in the middle of The Ledbury on Friday afternoons, a place where words like 'homosexual' and 'fuck' are never more than whispers and where everyone stops and turns to watch the family meltdown taking place at his table because _they_ certainty don't have family issues of their own to gossip about. "Merlin and I have had our problems, have made our fair share of mistakes and, I think, that all of _this_ was at the heart of all of _that_. I am done being a Pendragon. I'm ready to be _Arthur_ – to be _Merlin's_ Arthur."

Maybe it's long overdue, far too late. Maybe Merlin won't agree to try again, to put in what he did before because, while he's acknowledged that his feelings for Arthur are permanent, not likely to fade, he never said he was willing to take the risk of having Arthur back. 

He wants to be worth the risk, though. He wants to be worth Merlin. 

_-m._

Gwen agrees to watch Oliver. She says, "have a great time on your date! Good luck!" and adds a wink before he leaves. When Arthur opens the door, wine bottle in hand and a shocked look, one that says 'I really can't believe you came', on his face, Merlin relays the message with a smile. "Don't know what she thinks luck can do for me after this long," he says. Gesturing toward the wine bottle, he adds, "You remember that I don't drink that, yeah?"

"Of course." Arthur opens the door a little further, nods inside as though Merlin didn't live there for years and needs to be guided in. As Merlin remembers, he'd be told not so long ago to help himself out of it. It would be fair for Arthur to suggest he come back in all on his own, too.

He should stop thinking that way – wrapping the bad memories with the good, ruining their chances of starting over by holding on to things that can't take back but have grown from, realised were wrong. 

That's what they've agreed to: starting fresh, starting over. And slow steps, baby ones that never feel like too much and always feel like too little, are how they're determined to make this work. 

"Beef bourguignon for dinner." He gestures at the bottle, shaking it a little to attract Merlin's attention. "I have beer in the fridge, Coke or –"

Merlin smiles, amused by the way Arthur's brows draw together as he tries to remember what he bought. He's trying so hard. "Coke is fine."

Arthur nods, walks away. He tells Merlin it'll be just a few more minutes, to make himself comfortable and help himself to the telly.

Merlin skips the telly. He goes straight to the framed portraits lining the walls that weren't there when he still lived under this roof and runs his fingers over the thick black frames, the crystal clear glass that encases the portraits they'd had taken of Oliver at the zoo the month before. In the first he's wearing Merlin's glasses, crooked over his nose and bright blue eyes as he struggles to stop laughing and hold them in place at all once. His lips are parted wide and his cheeks are round and flushed, reminding Merlin of the way Freya looked when they'd shared jokes in the kitchen so close now, after so long. The second features him with ice cream smeared across his cheeks, lips green with mint and hands dripping over the pavement. In both his red jumper has a loose thread in the corner, pulled until it wouldn't go any further when he'd grown bored with watching the scenery on the trip to London, and a suspicious stain that might be mustard from his lunch. 

All in all, they're imperfect. Merlin had expected professional-looking shots and received the quality but not the picture, Oliver thoroughly destroying the idea of portrait sessions. Next to Arthur's pictures as a child, they are complete opposites. Arthur is stiff-backed, hair perfectly combed and jacket complete with children's cuff links. Oliver is free-spirited, blonde hair a messy disarray over his crown and forehead and lips pulled wide in a crooked grin. He's uncoordinated, loose-limbed and cheerful.

When they'd come in, the photographer had said, "We can take them all over again. Mr. Oliver was quite... excited," and Merlin had expected Arthur to demand new pictures, schedule them immediately.

'Shocked' wasn't a word nearly strong enough to describe the way Merlin felt when Arthur shook his head, smiled happily and declared them perfect. 

Between them is a portrait Merlin remembers Freya painting after a trip to the London zoo. It'd been her first visit and she'd painted nearly every animal she'd seen over the next two days – lions with great, wide bronze-coloured manes and giraffes with necks bent low, faces pressed close to those of their children. She'd talked about how she couldn't wait to see Oliver's face when he'd experienced it for the first time, the way joy would blossom from his lips and envelope him in excitement. After, she'd looked a bit lost, a bit sad and said, "Well, if I'm still allowed to be around..."

Merlin had promised her she would be, that there was no way he'd make her live without Oliver. He'd said, "You're stuck with Arthur and I, I'm afraid – _so sorry_."

He glances at her door, pressed tightly closed. It's been years since he's touched that door, stepped inside her space. After her death, he couldn't bear to face it – her things strewn about, her pictures leaned against the walls. 

He's feeling brave now, though, as his fingers slide over the chilly silver doorknob. Arthur is banging cupboard doors in the kitchen, cursing at himself and mumbling, "What the fuck was I thinking? I can't _cook_ " and it's comforting in a strange way, reminiscent of the nights where Freya wasn't doing well and didn't feel up to helping Merlin with dinner, back before Arthur had distanced himself and spent days or weeks away at a time.

He slides his hand over the wall, reaching for the light switch and is forced to blink, turn slightly away, when light floods the room suddenly.

Things are much the same as he remembers them. There is a spot against the wall that looks strangely empty, likely the place where her picture of the London zoo was before Arthur hung it up and her paints are still strewn in her case, some of their caps loose and others missing labels. 

It even smells like her, her hair and the scent of strawberries that seemed to follow her everywhere she went. Merlin remembers wondering if it was embedded in her skin, a an undeniable piece of her like the colour her eyes and silkiness of her hair.

The pictures of him are still there, too. Each one catches his face at a different angle, in a different light. Merlin has a hard time believing he looks half as attractive as she depicted him but it's nice, in a way, to know that she saw him like this – so colourful, bright and handsome.

Perfect, nearly.

Beside the pictures of him is Arthur's. She'd admitted of being unsure of how to finish it, what it needed. "He's complicated," she'd said, finger dripping red paint over the floor as her eyes skimmed the canvas, seeming to think it was needed but not knowing where to put it. "I don't think he's finished yet, Merlin; I can't draw someone who doesn't really exist, can I?"

"He exists," Merlin had insisted. He'd been sitting at the edge of bed, fingers stroking over her dark purple bedding just like he is now, staring at the same unfinished portrait. "He's there, just... hidden under layers of someone else."

She'd ' _hmmm_ 'ed, wiped her wet hands across her protruding belly leaving bright streaks of red and brown, damp and glistening over her skin. "They'll strip away eventually. Arthur is strong, he'll make himself known."

Now, though, there is more colour to Arthur's picture. There is gold in his hair, dark streaks over the sketched lines of his cheeks and jaw and the beginning of blue in his eyes, pale and solid but speckled with a hint of more. There is fiery red behind him, soft yellow lines brightening the entire scene and Merlin wonders when Arthur started painting. 

He doesn't want to acknowledge that he's been in Freya's room or snooping around Arthur's flat. So, he pulls the door shut quietly when Arthur says that dinner is ready and lies, tells Arthur he was in the loo, when he asks where he went. 

Eventually he forgets he saw it at all, too wrapped up in the way Arthur smiles at his jokes and Train's lyrics to Marry Me playing quietly in the background. It's too wonderful a time to pass up thinking about anything else. 

_-a._

The greying man tells Arthur it's not quite Parliament but that his experience will do him well in Oxford six months later. They've had successful dates, elongated discussions about Oliver's well-being and trying again and more sex then Arthur can count on a dozen sets of fingers and toes.

Well, maybe not _that_ much, but more than enough to leave an impression. 

Oliver tells anyone who will listen that his papa is moving to Oxford, that they're going to live together _all the time_. Most people just smile lightly at him, say things like "Is that so?" and "very nice, Oliver" but Lancelot, Gwen and Leon give him high-fives and yell, "About time, isn't it?" when they stop for lunch at Atomic Burger before unpacking Arthur's boxes. 

Merlin can't stop smiling. His lips are stuck in a permanent state of happiness, pulled widely at each corner and exposing his teeth and his gums so thoroughly that Arthur thinks the sun might bleach his entire mouth white like it does Oliver's hair in the summer.

"Did the packing go well?" Lancelot asks, dipping a chip in ketchup with one hand and ruffling Oliver's hair with the other as his fingers reach to pluck the chip from right in front of Lancelot's lips. "Sorry we weren't able to help."

Arthur nods, says, "It was fine. Oliver did most of it."

"Yes!" He looks too proud, so perfectly Pendragon-like that Arthur wonders again how he got so lucky, how he went from low to high and back down again, nearly losing everything and everyone over something he'd been warned about so many times before but hadn't seen it until it was almost too late. 

Gwaine hasn't rung as often as Oliver would like and Merlin seems a bit out of sorts when he does ring, always looking away or concentrating on anything but Arthur's presence in the room. It's going to become even more complicated now that Arthur is moving into the manor in Oxford, leaving the flat in London for occasional (and rare, as promised) business meetings or family gatherings because, despite having practically told his father to piss off (or saying it just like that, actually), there is not nearly enough discontent between them to warrant never speaking again. 

Morgana shared all kinds of openly pleased smiles with him and Merlin while they'd packed, keeping Oliver occupied while they moved the biggest boxes down to the boot of their cars. At one point, she'd whispered, "I knew you could do it," in Arthur's ear before sharing a hug with Merlin that was a little too long, her lips a little too close to his ear to not be sharing some sort of secret. 

When she'd pulled away, Merlin had looked half amazed and half unsure, as though maybe he'd done something wrong. 

A moment later, his eyes had met Arthur's and the look had dissolved, worry fading and leaving nothing but eagerness, excitement.

Strangest of it all though had been when Arthur had gone to say goodbye to Freya.

It wasn't really goodbye. He would be back eventually. Selling the flat was an impossibility; he was too connected to it – the walls, the rooms, the memories he'd made there with Freya, Merlin and Oliver. 

His portrait, the one she'd stared at and told him she wasn't quite sure how to finish, was complete. Loaded on her easel, paint still slightly wet and colours vibrant and all-over, not a patch of white left to be found. His face was the epitome of complete. The red in the background, cold and warm all at once, was nearly the perfect shade of the Pendragon crest his father had hoisted over the mantle. In his eyes were flecks of blue – some clear and bright, others murky and dark but all mixed fluidly together as though they were made to be beside one another, made to fit the lines around his eyes and the soft golden-brown colour of his lashes and brows. There was dark and light in his hair; yellow, gold and bronze over his crown and hanging loosely over his forehead the same way Oliver's always does and confidence in his gaze, understanding in his eyes that Arthur had only noticed recently when he looked at himself in the mirror.

He'd wondered if it was Freya's way of telling him she'd figured out what he was missing – that he'd finally found what he needed to help her finish, understand him. He'd found a new job, said goodbye to the one that had made him so unhappy and was focused now on making up for lost time. 

Maybe it had taken him longer than it should have and maybe he shouldn't get a second chance but, Arthur had thought strongly when he'd pulled the door shut, that maybe it was Freya's way of congratulating him for a job well done before he'd even had a chance to really start.

"Arthur?" Merlin's eyes are worried, concentrated on his. He presses his hand to Arthur's forehead, says, "You spaced out. Feeling okay?"

Oliver pops up from beside his elbow, having escaped his seat to run around the table and attempts to crawl into Arthur's lap. He mumbles, "Feeling okay, papa?" and rests his head against Arthur's chest when Arthur helps him up, settles him over his legs.

Arthur nods. He tangles his fingers with Merlin's retreating hand, squeezes it comfortingly and the worry recedes a little, eases until he smiles. "Yeah," answers Arthur truthfully, remembering the finished painting he'd packed up and loaded in the boot, ignoring Merlin's questioning glance when he'd declared himself all done and smiled easily. 

Merlin says, "Good to hear," and the others agree with nods, a few quiet grumbles about how they'd rather spend their afternoon unpacking then waiting for word on Arthur's mental health at A&E. 

Laughing, Arthur shakes his head and eases his fingers between Merlin's, his other hand rubbing slow circles over Oliver's back. "No need to worry," he announces, voice loud enough for everyone to hear but eyes focused strictly Merlin. Completely sure of himself for the very first time, he says, "I think we'll be just fine." 

****

[PART III]  
 _epilogue_

  


-o.

Eventually Oliver’s parents become ‘dad’ and ‘father’ because ‘daddy and ‘papa’ aren’t the kind of title you shout out when you’re twelve but Arthur is still ‘papa’ and Merlin is still 'daddy' when Oliver comes home his second week into primary school with tear streaks over his cheeks and a trembling lip that’s red, swollen and marked with little indents where teeth bit. “Why am I not allowed to have two daddies?” he asks, fearful and unsure as he looks between them, the black frames around his dad’s blue eyes crooked and partially hidden under his fringe and his papa’s stern expression fading to one of horror, worrying Oliver even further as he waits for his answer. On the phone a few minutes later, his daddy is furious and swearing under his breath while Oliver munches crisps and takes deep sips from his juice all before dinner, his disappointment already forgotten thanks to junk food and telly. When Oliver questions having a snack before dinner, his daddy says ‘just because,’ with a tight, worried smile that Oliver doesn’t bother to question. 

It’s his papa who puts him to bed that night, looking worn and a little flushed like he does after Oliver’s worn down his nerves. “I’m sorry,” he starts slowly, quietly, pulling the coverings up over Oliver’s shoulders with a tenderness that makes his chest warm, “I didn’t think this part through, did I? It’s one thing if it’s us but... You deserve better, mate.” 

He doesn’t understand what any of that is supposed to mean. He won’t, not for a long time, but for now he just nods and tells his papa ‘It’s okay’ because he likes to think that it will be.

: : :

He never stops having to explain his family’s situation; it sets him apart. There are always questioning glances from those who wonder but aren’t quite sure how to ask; or whispers from behind him where words like ‘gay’ and ‘surrogate’ are loud and clear in his ears. Those are the people who aren’t brave enough to ask him and instead make up tales or assume they understand the truth; lots of ‘I heard that...’ and ‘Well, if you ask me...’ mingling with half-true stories taken from his mouth and developed overtime to fit the needs of whoever feels like talking about it later on. The giggling lessens with age and eventually he goes to a posh boarding school for boys where everyone asks, ‘well, are _you_?’ and look at him in disbelief when he says, ‘no, I’m not’ as though because his parents are both males, he has to like blokes, too. 

Fewer and farther between, but better by far, are the people who eventually become his friends; who ask directly and smile with understanding when he tells them the truth. He is unashamed, comfortable with his family dynamic and doesn’t ever wake up and think, ‘I wish I didn’t have them’ because on the mornings when he does wake up dreading the whispers, the glances and the ‘are you gay?’s, there’s always a text on his mobile with a cheesy ‘good morning!’ in all lower-case letters and a smiley face made with a capital ‘D’ rather than a parenthesis because his dad is just that happy... and Oliver supposes he should be happy, too.

: : :

When he’s seventeen Oliver meets a girl from a neighbouring college at a local coffee shop. He’s sweaty, covered in dirt from his football game (to be fair, he prefers his swim mates but they don't leave the pool for much of anything, much less _football_ ) and he trips over his words, thinking that he must have inherited his inability to finish a sentence from his mum because his dads are both too eloquent for their own good. Finally, red-faced and embarrassed enough to consider giving up, one of his mates comes to save him with a quick, “What Ollie is trying to say is, ‘can I have your number?’” and a firm slap on the back, unintentionally shifting Oliver a little closer to her. She laughs, nods and shares a giggle or two with her friends while she grabs a white napkin and writes her number in perfect loops and straight lines. The pink ink looks bold, fresh and inviting when she hands it back and says, “You’ve got a sweet smile, Oliver. I’d like to see it again, yeah?”

They text late into the night, during classes and eventually the bill shows up in the post box and his dad rings to say, “Are you studying or texting? Almost four thousand in a month, Oliver; what’s different?” He’s not ashamed of the truth and he tells all about Lily’s perfect brown hair, the way it curls around her shoulders and the pale blue flakes of colour in her green eyes. He admits that he’s kissed her, that it wasn’t his first kiss but that he loved it more with her and that he spends most of his waking moments thinking about the smiles she gives him, lashes lowered and lips pale pink. When his dad asks, “Well, when were you planning on bringing her to dinner? We’d like you to share big news with us, yeah?” Oliver doesn’t think about what it might mean before he answers, “Soon, okay? Dinner over hols? I’m sure she’d spend a day in London with us.”

Later he remembers that unlike his mates and the blokes he goes to school with, Lily doesn’t know about his family being considered anything but conventional. When he starts to explain, saying ‘I have two dads’, before she cuts him off with a laugh and a “Well, that’s not too weird, is it? I’m sure plenty of people do” and he swears right then he is in love with her.

Two weeks later he meets her at the corner of Seymour Street and Berkeley Mews, taking in the perfect way her hair is plaited and the blue flower peeking from above her ear, complementing the cornflower-coloured dress that bares her shoulders and sways against her tanned thighs. She’s gorgeous and he tells her as much, loving it when she smiles and thanks him, tells him she’s heard so many good things about Locanda Locatelli but that what she really can’t wait for is going home with him, sneaking from the guest room so that they can finally take things a little further, can finally have some private time that might evolve into what she knows he’s been waiting for.

It takes all the control his body can muster to not come right there on the corner, surrounded by dozens of people milling from place to place on a busy Friday night and if he wasn’t sure his parents were sitting at the table awaiting his arrival, he might have opted to skip dinner entirely to see if Lily’s promises were real, if she was finally ready to go beyond the snogging and over-clothes touching they’ve been doing for the last three months. 

Her kiss, slow and firm, is teasing.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to worry too much about the erection he’s attempting to hide when she leans in just through the door and says, “Look, a gay couple in a restaurant like this. I can’t believe they _allow_ that.”

Oliver stops, toes curling in his shoes and chest feeling ridiculously warm. Didn’t they have air conditioning in this place? “I thought you understood,” he says, staring at her (stupidly) while his dad waves his hand excitedly from the table he’s sharing with Oliver’s father, the same table Lily is watching with obvious disgust when she replies, “Understood, what? You know, the one on the left looks a lot like you...”

And it clicks. “Oh,” she sputters, eyes wide. “You... They’re your... Oh – my – _god_.”

His father seems to notice the strenuous nature of the conversation taking place in the lobby. He grabs his dad’s arm, pulls it down to rest against the table and whispers something into his ear that makes both of their faces draw tight. Oliver watches it all, mouth going dry when he looks back at Lily. “Can we... You’ll like them, I swear it. They’re not... camp or – Yeah. And they don’t, like, kiss in public. They’re... you know. Okay.”

Oliver doesn’t mention that he finds it incredibly unfair that his parents, together for more than twenty years and entirely self-sufficient, don’t kiss in public because they don’t like making people like Lily uncomfortable but that she found it perfectly acceptable to grope him through his trousers on the football field last week while half the team watched. At the time, he’d been flabbergasted and too warm for words but he hadn’t minded until now, when it was clear that boundaries like personal affection in public only applied to _straight_ people. 

They sit; they eat. Oliver realises later than Lily stays more because she doesn’t want to look bad then because she’s willing to give them a shot, see if maybe there’s more to ‘the gay couple over there’ then she might have thought. His parents have already seen her, they know that she’s well and that there’s no reason she couldn’t be there and it’s all about appearance to girls like Lily – what people, even people she clearly doesn’t like, think of her.

Her answers are short, involvement in discussion is limited and before dinner is over, she mentions that though she appreciates the offer to let her stay in the guest room, she has a friend right around the corner she hasn’t seen in ages and she’d like to visit with her for a while before she goes back home. 

His dad says, “Nice to visit with old friends, isn’t it?” and his father says, “Oliver forgot to mention that when he rang last night and told us to get your room ready.” 

He feels a bit on the spot when he says, “Didn’t know, did I?” Lily glares and kicks him under the table. Oliver doesn’t care much. He pushes his linguine noodles across his plate, recalling the way Lily had rolled her eyes when his dad had ordered in broken Italian, trying to look like he belonged despite the fact the he hated posh cuisine and would probably rather be dining in a rubbish bin. Lily’s Italian had been perfect, every word accented in the right spot and she’d shot down his father’s order before it was even out of his mouth, claiming that most people didn’t come to places like this to ‘just eat chicken’. 

Looking a bit hurt, maybe even a little embarrassed, his dad takes a sip of his wine and looks away. Oliver knows when his father’s hand slides to meet his dad’s under the table; he doesn’t see it, but the ghost of a smile that is shared between them tells him just as much. They sit in silence while they eat, Lily staring rudely at his father when he asks his dad if he’d like more wine. Her expression is blatantly disgusted and Oliver wants to throw up because this was not what he planned and he feels like an idiot for not making sure she understood before.

“I thought you meant your parents were divorced and your mum remarried,” she yells later than evening, staying with her friend’s family despite the last-minute notice. She only rings to complain, to scream about how terrible it was and how she can’t believe he didn’t mention something sooner. “You could have saved me so much time, Oliver! I wouldn’t have –”

“Dated me?” he asks. He’s too loud, it’s too late and he’s likely to wake his parents if he keeps it up but he can’t control himself any longer. It’s years of frustration, of bitter resentment toward the people who don’t understand – who don’t even try to – and the presumptuous bullshit that because he has two dads rather than one and a mum, he’s somehow different – _wrong_. “Because it makes a fucking difference if my dad sticks his cock in someone’s arse or someone’s twat? Christ, Lily, what does it matter to _you_?”

Buzzing, the strange kind that means that someone is still on the line but not even breathing fills his ear. He waits, thinking that maybe he toed the line a little too far and should apologise but she says, “You’re right, I’m sorry. Oliver, I – You’re special, yeah? Let’s not ruin this.”

“Okay. O-Okay. Just... apologise to my parents, yeah? They... They don’t deserve that.”

“That’s the stipulation, though.”

Oliver stops, takes a deep breath and tries to remember if he heard her correctly.

“I don’t want to be around your parents. You and I are one thing but they... I don’t like it, Oliver. My family is really conservative we don’t like that... lifestyle.”

His family is Conservative in _Parliament_. Who is she trying to fool? Oliver replies, “Yeah, well, I’m not so sure I’m willing to take your stipulation” and hangs up before she can respond.

The next morning his dad makes bacon and toast, lets him drink two cans of Coke before 9 in the morning and only shrugs when Oliver apologises for the incredibly loud row from the night before. “I probably woke you up; sorry ‘bout that.” 

“She was a nice girl,” his dad replies, sounding friendly with just a touch of hurt, “very pretty, too. I’m sure you two are –”

“Broken up.”

“– a great couple.”

A moment later his dad says, “oh” and shoves more bacon on Oliver’s plate. Greasy strips of pork are every man’s cure for heartache, he remembers that much, and he crunches as quietly as he can waiting for the magical healing properties to take hold. In a way, he’s really rather ready to laugh at himself because it’s a silly thing to even consider. He feels even more silly when he starts to consider the idea of accepting her offer, staying together if it just means not bringing her home to his parents. He tries to imagine having children without his parents around. Birthday parties, holidays away... It’s impossible to think of himself without them in some way, separated from them because of who they are despite the fact that there’s _nothing – wrong – with – them_.

When his father joins them a moment later, pressing a kiss to his dad’s lips in a hurried manner that Oliver thinks is for his benefit rather than their own, he feels sick. He’s never been ashamed of them, never felt like he would rather belong to a better set of parents and he doesn’t know how to say, ‘To hell with her, you’re more important’ without stumbling over his words. He respects their affection for one another, the way his dad’s eyes slide closed slowly and he sighs just slightly when his father pulls away, the ease with which their hands find each other, fingers interlocking naturally as though they belong alongside one another, holding it all together as a team. He wants what they have for himself some day and he doesn’t know how to look at them and say, ‘Thank you for being gay, for loving one another and for choosing me’ because words aren’t enough and he’s never been very good with them anyway. He’s never known how to explain the way he feels. 

“I’ll have you know,” his father says between bites of toast, “that people fall in love with people who don’t like their in-laws all the time. Just because she isn’t fond of us doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you – or that you have to dislike her because... Well, don’t take us into consideration.”

But, the thing is, Oliver knows better. He thinks that they can tell him to follow his heart all day long but, in the end, his heart will always be _here_ – with them. He remembers his father turning down holidays in Spain and Australia, saying, “We’re a package; I don’t go where you two can’t follow” and ruffling Oliver’s hair with a smile that said ‘You are my world’. His dad was always notorious for being the one who called late at night, telling Oliver that he just wanted to hear his voice and asking about his day and the things he’s been up to. In a sense, they’re what holds him together. When he’s sad, he rings home. If he’s angry, he rings home again. And they never deny him what he needs – a hug, a reminder that he is important or a promise to fill him up on sweets and crisps when he comes home. 

They’d follow him to the end of the Earth and no bird is worth giving that up.

: : :

He meets her while visiting his nan in Devon. He's twenty-four, newly single (Hannah had been nice enough, had loved his parents but had big plans in the US and Oliver couldn't see leaving home or his parents to study giant trees, no matter how rare they were) and passing the same café his parents insist on stopping at every time they're in Torbey, sharing secret smiles and laughs that are loud and attention-grabbing though they never tell him what makes the Caffe Nero in Torquay so damn funny. She's stepping out onto the pavement. Her hands are fishing through her bag, eyes trained on finding whatever is crooning within the pockets, when she bumps into him, just as preoccupied with his mobile as she is with her bag.

Neither of them worry about their original distractions any more. Her purse is quiet, soaked with coffee and his mobile and shirt are both dripping on the pavement, leaving a murky brown puddle between them.

She blurts, "My god, I am _so_ fucking sorry!" and then clamps her hands to her mouth, adding a mumbled, " _Christ_ , I just said _fuck_ and you're _so_ fit."

She's quite fit herself, he notices. Her hair is dark, tied up in a pony at the base of her neck and over-long, hanging thickly between her shoulder blades. Sea green eyes stare unabashed, pink lips parted before she subconsciously bites at the bottom one, tugging it between her teeth. Her cheeks are rosy, flushed from embarrassment, Oliver assumes, and adds the perfect shock of colour to her pale skin. 

Oliver replies with a hurried, "wow, thanks" and then adds: "I'll go get you another coffee, yeah? What did you have?"

"No! No, don't! It's my fault; I was too busy looking for my sodding mobile to pay attention to where I was going. I've practically ruined your shirt!"

It is more than a little damp, the stain will probably be a pain (or an impossibility) to remove if he doesn't get it to the wash quick but he shrugs, says, "Let me buy your coffee and we'll call it even." 

"Unless you're... No, never mind," he adds a moment later, embarrassed when she doesn't reply immediately. He looks down and away, says, "Sorry--"

"Yes! Of course," she interrupts, pressing two fingers to his lips to shut him up. 

Oliver thinks this is a very forward way to treat someone, to touch them in such an intimate place, but he nods nonetheless, mumbles, "Yeah, great," and gestures toward the door, laughing when the barista gapes open-mouthed at the puddle of now-cold coffee they leave across the floor.

She says, "My name is Olivia and I'd like to formally apologise for fucking up – Christ, _ruining_ – your shirt."

"Oliver," he says, laughing at their matching names and the fact that she asks, 'Oliver? Really? Are you taking the piss?'.

Olivia shrugs, tossing her mobile on the table between them. She gives him a smile, wide and straight and white, and says, "Well, if this isn't fate, I don't know what is."

He agrees.

: : :

"That's Gwaine at the bar and Mithian in the yellow dress," Oliver explains, pointing along with his words. "My grandfather and Aunt Morgana are probably--"

"Somewhere arguing," Olivia finishes for him, patting his hand. She says, "I know your family, Oliver. Two years is plenty time enough to meet them all."

Stumbling a bit over his words, he mumbles, "Right but –" and "Well, I just wanted –" before settling with, "Yeah, I know."

The wedding is coming to a close, wedding planner slightly breathless in the corner as she watches the milling guests and peeks at her watch, likely relived that the madness is almost over. The cake is cut, food was served nearly an hour ago and Oliver thinks that if he moves any more tonight he's likely to explode. He's said hello to all of the guests, goodbye to more than a few of them and when Olivia mumbles, "I'm so ready to go home," he understands exactly how she feels.

A moment later, he feels a soft jab against his side. He turns, watching as Olivia nods and smiles to someone across the room and isn't entirely surprised to find it's his parents, heads down and lips moving slowly, tired. They look happy, pleased and a bit less worn down then Oliver is feeling at the moment. When his dad looks up, he smiles widely, waves anxiously and mouths, 'Going to head home, okay?'

As Oliver nods, Olivia leans close to his ear and says, "Your parents are so fucking perfect for one another. Have they always been this happy?"

Oliver thinks about Gwaine and Mithian, how they'd very nearly been his step-parents and how his father had nearly driven his dad to tears in A&E when he'd broken his arm, asking him what kind of parent he was leaving his son in the care of an immature pillock like Gwaine.

He remembers his parents whispered voices the first night he'd come home from school, when his dad had been furious and his father had been disappointed, unsure of what to do or say because the kids at school were right, weren't they? He and Oliver's dad weren't normal, were they? And it'd been the same thing year after year from then on, his story repeated over and over, just like his dad taught him: "Yes, you have a mum. Freya, you remember? She loved you, wanted you more than anything else and would be telling them off for all of us if she knew what they'd said. But, you also have your father and I and we love you, too. You're everything we have, yeah? Don't let them tell you otherwise."

He considers telling her about Lily, his first love, and how he'd let her walk away, spread rumours about him at the girls' college because his parents meant more to him than anything she had to offer but that it hurt to realise that they were, yet again, the reason he couldn't be normal, couldn't fall in love with his first girlfriend and marry her, have children with her. 

There was a time when he was eighteen when they'd nearly fallen apart all over again and he wants to tell her about that. His grandfather had been livid about Oliver going to the University of Stirling, swimming instead of playing football and studying film and media rather than politics. His dad had defended him, let the entire table (his grandfather, Aunt Morgana, father and miscellaneous friends) know that Oliver had made the decision all on his own and was happy with his choice, with where he was going and what he was doing. His father hadn't said anything in his defence and they'd had a great row later that night, yelling so loud that his dad could hardly speak the next morning and his father had left sometime after two, not returning until noon the next day.

A week later his grandfather had been shocked and thoroughly displeased when his father snatched the acceptance paperwork to Oxford from his hands and tore it to pieces, letting it scatter across the floor when he said, "I've told you before and I'll tell you again, he's _my_ son and if he wants to study the patterns of bird shit in Mexico, he will and he will be _supported_."

After that, there hadn't been arguments so much as worries – the kind where they called in the middle of the night just to be sure he was okay or got all stone-faced and sad when he waved before he left after a weekend they thought was too short, not nearly enough time to catch up. He couldn't call often enough if he spent every waking moment on the phone with them and, even at twenty-six, he still wakes up every morning to a text that says: "Good morning! :D"

But, really, when he thinks about it – factors in all of the bad and all of the good – he can't remember his parents ever being as miserable as they were apart. He'd been small then and his memories might be just a bit murky but he remembers the big pieces, the pieces that count and he knows that at the end of everything, no matter what happened, his parents were meant for one another. 

Fate. Destiny. One born for the other.

So, he smiles, shrugs one shoulder and says, "We'll just say that if we end up half as happy as they are--" he nods towards his parents, their fingers intertwined and their shoulders bumping gently before his they half-turn to wave goodbye, offering him soft, pleased smiles "– we have a pretty fucking amazing life to look forward to."

**Author's Note:**

> Cut scenes, the playlist and miscellaneous notes for the fic are [here](http://dripped-ink.livejournal.com/13912.html) if you're interested!


End file.
